


A Grand Hymn Rose

by o_antiva



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Alistair and Hawke friendship, Blackwall joins the Wardens, Brosca and Iron Bull friendship, Dorian and Anders friendship, Healer Anders (Dragon Age), Intrigue, Lore - Freeform, Multi, Sebastian Vael joins the Inquisition, Solas and Lavellan are complicated, Surana and Vivienne frenemies, Unreliable Narrator, Warden Alistair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10228307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_antiva/pseuds/o_antiva
Summary: Branded by accusations of murder and heresy, an elven rogue leads a failing alliance against hopeless odds. As political intrigues form against the Inquisition, and new forces emerge to destroy them, the Herald of Andraste seeks to fulfill Divine Justinia’s final wish: to find the Heroes of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall. Even to the last, the Herald of Andraste holds fast to forgotten and forbidden verses struck from the Chant: the Canticles of Shartan, when elves and humans fought together to save the world from madness.This is the story of a small, struggling rag-tag Inquisition and a mysterious elven Inquisitor who can't shake the accusations against her. The Grey Warden contingent arrives at Skyhold with Alistair, Brosca, and Surana to help on the missions... and to take responsibility for the prisoner Anders, who becomes the much-needed healer at Skyhold. Returning favorites. New quests and new villains. War table operations. Higher stakes. Dark and intense. Fun and spirited. Mayhem. Twists. True love. Pirates. Dragons.





	1. Vigil

_Herald of Andraste,  
The Teyrnir of Highever wishes to convey our deepest sympathies on the death of Divine Justinia V. The Most Holy was incomparable in her wisdom and dedication to peace, and we had high hopes that her Conclave would succeed._

_We will hold a vigil in Highever in remembrance of Justinia, and cordially invite the Inquisition to attend._

_Sincerely,  
Teyrn Fergus Cousland_

...............

They waited in the woods for her. A little bird whispered to them that the queen would come this way, and she would come in this manner: a carriage of middling importance, functional and sound, but without the elaborate trappings that would reveal her identity. No gilt frame, no liveried footmen, no banners. No braids in the horses' manes, no special barding. They were a tough crew, brown and shaggy like you would have thought a Fereldan horse to be. The men-at-arms were unremarkable, their armor didn't match, and as soon as trouble started, they spurred off and left her to die. Octavius had laughed when it happened, but who could blame them for running away?

It was a swift end for her majesty. The Master would be pleased. The matter of Orlais had been that of a dance, intricate and delicate, with each player pressed palm to palm in a whirling procession. Support, sway, or kill? 

But that was Orlais. Ferelden was no subtle country: a land of cold mists, tracking mud, and the smell of dog. The people told you what they were thinking. An insolent and stubborn lot. No taste for the Game, and no talent for it either. Queen Anora had almost showed a glimmer of promise, but she flatly refused the Master when she was asked, and for what? To be queen of a dying land? To rule over rubble and mud? No more, no more. 

The Hunters watched the carriage burn for a time, the wooden frame smoldering in the drizzling cold of the Fereldan forest. When they struck there had been a frantic thumping on the doors, and then nothing. Smoke and mist interwove above the muddy road. The fog looked pink and orange all around them from the setting sun, but there was no warmth in it. A miserable country.

Octavius strode a circle around the wreckage. "So passes Anora," he proclaimed, "queen of Ferelden."

The woods were falling quiet, and his men loosened, beginning to chat among themselves. Predators at the kill, sated now. 

Septimus set his staff across his shoulders, hanging his arms upon it. He always like to show off his arms. "So much for her majesty's disguise," he said. "It's a shame her men could hardly wait to ride away. I thought the one with the lion helmet would surely stand his ground."

Shutting his book away from the wet, one of the spellbinders remarked, "Too true, I would have thought the dog-people would put up a better fight. Even the woman." 

"Especially the women," another laughed.

The red templars were shuffling now toward their position. They moved slowly in the dying light of the day, the red gleam of sunset glowing on their armor. One of them was a special sight to see, a champion greatly transformed by the love of their god. His tremendous neck muscles strained to lift his head, his face once handsome, now focused in the growth of a lyrium crystal.

Septimus smirked. "Templar knights. So good of you to join us at last... but it turned out we didn't even need you."

"Now, brother," Octavius chided him, "they are faithful servants of the Master."

A team of gladiators clanked up with them. A brutish-looking one bent his masked head and went toward the carriage, sword drawn.

"My lord," said one of them, a light voice, a young man. "The men and horses got away. Do you want us to pursue?" He used the polite forms of their language, his accent rough and provincial, and for a moment, he almost sounded like a woman. Octavius couldn't see the boy's face, obscured by the helmet, but he seemed earnest, his salute one of eager respect.

"No use in it," Octavius replied. "We have what we came for."

"Yes, sir."

The other gladiators were at a loss with the carriage. The heat baffled their approach, the air around it swimming.

Octavius picked a wet leaf off his clothing. "Too hot for you to touch, is it? A mage will do it. Septimus, you may have the honors, as I believe the greater fire was yours."

"The merest effort," laughed the other. "But I thank you."

Septimus went forward to the wreck of the carriage. Great sheets of smoke came sideways off it. He called a barrier to shield him from his task, and, with a showy gesture of his ringed hand, he reached forward and grasped the handle of the carriage door. It would have branded the flesh of any lesser man, but for a mage properly schooled in the arts of flame, it was next to nothing. Behind them, the young gladiator unsheathed his sword.

The blackened wood rattled once and fell off its hinges.

And there was the damnedest thing.

Inside the carriage sat a man, legs crossed one over the other, his chin rested on his fist. Completely unscathed, finely clothed, not a hair out of place. Extremely handsome and well aware of the fact, a darker-skinned Qarinus lineage. A killer smile with a showy little mustache waxed to perfection. The shimmer of his barrier was all but lost in the general picture of things. He looked so pleased with himself.

Septimus stood gawking.

Octavius started to yell, calling a flash of magic to hand, but a blade protruded from his chest. The junior gladiator had turned on him and struck him deep. Through the slot of the helmet, the boy's eyes shone fierce. He roared a command in the trade language.

Armed figures came crashing from the woods.

Then Dorian Pavus stepped out of the wreckage, staff ready. In the sauciest tone he proclaimed, " _Long live the queen._ "

...............

The Venatori rippled over with the blue haze of a barrier. The important ones, at least, or what remained of them; Lieutenant Aclassi had dispatched what appeared to be the leader of the strike team. When his blade pulled free of the body, Dorian swung his staff into a thumping downward cast.

Chain lightning arced between three of the spellbinders that stood near to one another. If not for the electrocution, then they might have died of embarrassment: you ought to know better than that, frankly.

Aclassi slammed into a gladiator as the Chargers rushed into the fray. Out of the red forest light a deep voice bellowed, " ** _HOOOORNS UUUUUP!_** " and Dorian felt a funny thrill that had naught to do with any magic.

The red templars lurched into battle. They were no fun in a surprise attack, no reaction, really, and that could cut into your enjoyment a little if you let it. The Iron Bull was ready to meet them, his attitude as festive as his striped trousers, and he hefted a two-handed edge about the size of a horse plough. He rent his way through the templars with a fury and exultant joy, his men set to the butchering with a shared enthusiasm. There was an elf among them whose cruel and beautiful laughter was richly served by an Orlesian accent.

Hoofbeats sounded. It was how they had rehearsed: the two escorts would cut the carriage horses free, they would ride away, and the carriage would burn with Dorian inside it, committed to his barrier and some cheeky thing he would say when discovered. Once the battle started the Chargers would rush, the Venatori might break, and the horsemen would return to cut down the survivors.

Dorian saw Blackwall spur his stallion at a full tilt gallop. A running spellbinder whipped through his book for just the right words, but no text on a page could withstand the thudding weight of a horse and rider. Though hardly an expert on Grey Warden tactics, Dorian hadn't figured they would develop any great talent for horsemanship. Yet Blackwall rode as a master. 

Cullen spurred onward to chase a fleeing magus. The lion-masked helm tucked toward his shoulder as he went, and Dorian watched the arc of his sword separate head from body. A perfect clean cut. The horse dashed onward with mud flying from her hooves.

The final mage stepped backward, starting in on a threat, some _trite villain crap_ as Varric Tethras might call it, but his open mouth blossomed with a brightly colored twist of feathers. The better part of the arrow's length protruded from his lower skull and neck; the red broadhead flashed once as the body listed and toppled in the day's dying light.

The Chargers stomped through, cutting throats, pulling the bodies together. 

Cullen walked his mare back to them. "There may be more," he growled to Bull. "Have your men do a sweep, then do as you like with their possessions. Any papers or spellbooks are spoken for, but anything else is your own. Good work. Dorian, report."

"I've never held a barrier so hard in my life," Dorian answered. "Or drank quite so much lyrium. No, no, that's a lie... but I'm not five-and-twenty anymore.” 

The Herald yanked her arrow from the jaws of her kill. She looked eerie in the red light. Looked pink. The pale skin, the colorless hair, the huge dark staring eyes. To Dorian she always looked something like a ghost from a folktale, the kind he'd obsessed about as a child. Spooky things, crawling things. Vengeful things. It hardly surprised Dorian that the good commander should find her such a fetching creature. He seemed like the sort of man who secretly thirsted for trouble.

The red stripe glowed on her face in the sunset, the mark of some elven deity. Some great irony there, he supposed. That’s why you should really think about a permanent tattoo.

“Dorian,” Cullen growled. 

Oh— oh right. Dorian sent up an exploding flare of light for a signal.

...............

Dorian was so stupid with lyrium that it seemed a happy blur the whole way to Highever. It turned out the Chosen One had lost her mount somewhere (excellent ploy, Your Worship), so she had to ride with Cullen, who was _greatly_ imposed upon, Dorian was sure. He supposed the other choice was himself (the hero he was) or Blackwall. Would that horrible beard itch your neck the entire way? Such a thought sparked a sudden burst of laughter-- he blamed the lyrium-- and Cullen shot him a look so irritated that it made the snarling lion helmet look like a cute kissy face in comparison. 

On to Highever! The town and castle shone resplendent in the setting sun, a great darkening expanse set behind it like velvet displays a jewel. A horn sounded from the ramparts and a guard of men rode out to meet them, fine and flashing in the blue teynir livery. The crossed spears of their house. 

Men-at-arms. A fearsome woman of Chasind extraction; her saddle bore the tooled leather sheath that held a cruel-looking axe. The horses stamped and shook their manes. The teyrn himself rode out to meet them with his team of bodyguards. 

Fergus Cousland was a handsome man, tanned, dark-haired, with a blaze of silver at his temples. Josephine had read them out the whole sordid history of the blight, when House Cousland had been killed nearly to a man. Women, children, their retainers. Fergus had been set upon, and the younger boy had escaped, only to be pressed into service with the wardens. A raw deal there. Dorian was unsurprised; he had seen a similar drama play out on the stages of Minrathous, heirs slain and lineages ended against a backdrop of tawdry intrigues. Part of him hoped that impending doom would unite rivals toward a common cause, but his waking self knew better than that. In the world-ending chaos of the blight, fear and madness prevailed, and competitors fell upon each other because they had to, or because they could. It was like survivors drowning each other above a sinking ship.

Cullen made a terse obeisance to the teyrn. At Skyhold, Dorian had seen him blow by nobles with a scant word clipping out; you had to earn his respect it seemed, though he would grant you the minimum. He seemed as skittish as his mare, irritable, with a habit of pressing his gloved fingers against his eyes. Dorian figured him for the type to obsess over something after it was done; Dorian himself vowed never to linger on these things. It was done, and they all lived, and he felt the world dissolve and pull away at the edges, the pleasant aftereffect of his lyrium dose. Dorian hoped it would remain pleasant, at least. He could hardly go about vomiting through the Divine Justinia's holy vigil.

One of the teyrn's men took his horse by the reins, and Cousland swung down from the saddle. He went up smiling to the Herald, pulling a glove off his hand. She dismounted to properly exchange their greetings. "You're her, then," he said. "I'm Fergus Cousland."

She offered a hand and Cousland hovered a kiss above the bloodstained fingers. Lavellan blinked, not immune to charm, it seemed. "Well met, Teyrn Cousland," she replied. "Have the others arrived safely?"

"The ladies have been enjoying some refreshments for the last hour. So might you." Cousland grinned. "Welcome to Highever."

Dorian imagined the other party-- Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana, the queen of Ferelden, and their retainers-- and how that must have gone. Much less thrilling than their own derring-do, but likely much more dramatic in its own right. He'd heard that Anora once tried to imprison or kill Leliana some ten years earlier, back in the Blight, and he just couldn't imagine Leliana being able to get past that kind of shenanigans.

"We shouldn't linger out here, my lord," Cullen said flatly. 

Dorian already knew this would be a mission of great fun when the advisors had taken him aside to explain. They rode like heroes into the keep, banners flying, mabari running all about the horses with their barking. Throngs of people stood outside the dwellings of the town. Towers flew the flags of Highever but also the sunburst of the Chantry, and the signs and heraldry of a dozen noble families were in evidence all about. Officially, they had come to pay their respects to the late Divine, but as in Tevinter, the nobles would be vying for attention and favors all throughout the gathering.

In the courtyard of the keep, Cullen pulled the lion helm off his head. His hair rebelled and Dorian was always amused to see it in its natural state. He looked exhausted, though, and it was a good thing that Cousland played an excellent and gracious host. Already men-at-arms, retainers, and servants were bustling out to help take their tack and horses, to offer refreshments and rest, to sort everyone out in that brash and open friendliness that were the mark of this country. As happy to see you as the big dogs that even now hurtled and dashed underfoot. 

Luck would have it that Dorian was assigned possibly the most handsome elf in the teyrnir for his valet. The man chatted and laughed in a purring accent as he led the mage straightaway to a charming tower suite with blazing candles, oil paintings, and woolen tapestries threaded over in a knotwork design. 

It was as though Cousland’s people had decided that ‘sorcerer tower’ was the look to go for, and there were a manner of rich leather tomes set out, dried herbs, stoppered bottles of colorful liquids. More immediate and impressive stood a copper tub, and it was there he wound up falling asleep, his arms spread out along the rim.


	2. Vigil, ii

The herald was sweaty, mudsplattered, and smeared with blood to her elbows. She reeked of horse. Her white hair had a sort of brittle quality that reacted poorly in this clime. Pale skin, huge dark eyes a little too wide apart, a full mouth of cracked-looking lips; she seemed weathered by time, wind, cold, a survivor. The red slash of a tattoo was something to catch the attention. Yet-- yet Cullen thought that she looked bewitching, more than ever. She possessed an unusual alignment of features that brought out an attractiveness all her own. Although he thought she might be in her early thirties, as himself, she looked a little like a doll of his sister's when they were children. An evil doll. 'If you're a bad little brother,' Mia had told him, 'it comes alive at night, and it knows what you’ve done.'

This was how she was presented to Queen Anora of Ferelden. He supposed Josephine was dying of shame to have the Inquisitor introduced in such a way; it seemed she would prefer a good primping and pampering, but fresh from the kill, the herald looked raw. Real. Her bare feet left a muddy patter as she tracked toward the queen in the keep's grand entryway. Slight though she was, she walked tall, her head held high and full of frizz.

Cullen adored her.

He saw Cassandra take the bow and quiver from the Herald. Her face was a poorly disguised frown; perhaps Cassandra had also felt rough and out of place in presentations such as these, but there was no need. If Anora were offended by such petty things, then perhaps she might have preferred to burn in her own carriage. 

Graciously, Anora made no sign of reaction. "Inquisitor," she said. "I thank you for your assistance. With your help, not only have you protected my life, but you have shown me precisely who has betrayed my trust. I informed only one of my advisors which carriage and which road.”

"One might say that mercy is the province of the Maker," the Herald replied, "but we do as we must upon the earth. It is good you are safe, your majesty." 

“Indeed. I am sure you are fatigued from your journey,” Anora told her. “We will have time to speak later.”

...............

Cullen had been serving at Kinloch Hold when the news came of the Couslands’ destruction. “Why would anyone do such a thing?” he had asked one of the knight-lieutenants of the time. In trying to understand the actions of Arl Howe, he thought of his family’s own liege-lord, Bann Jevrin Barris. He could never imagine that man with anything like cruelty twisted upon his face. He couldn’t imagine that man snarling orders to a troop of soldiers armed with swords and torches against the trusting and defenseless. But the Howes were dealt with, chopped up to nothing, with a daughter the only remainder. The family name would die with a Grey Warden, a son pressed into the Joining, as the younger Cousland boy had been. 

The castle showed little sign of the disaster that befell it a decade prior, but the evidence was there if you knew where to look for it. New hangings and trappings covered the walls, especially where you could see the marks of a fire, and all the trophies and armors and displays were all recent. A family as old and storied as the Couslands would have presented the treasures and heirlooms of the ages: ceremonial armors, collars of hero mabari, copper-green tartans from the time of the founding, plumed masks and helmets taken from the war with Orlais; Bryce Cousland’s own sword; and the spear of Eleanor Cousland, who had resisted King Calenhad to the bitter end. Cullen had wanted to see these things, to linger among them and have a look, but Leliana told him they had all been sold or stolen, lost in the fires, or looted by the arl’s men. All for what. All for nothing.

The teyrn received them with a kindness so profound that Cullen twinged time and again with a dull sort of suspicion. He knew better, of course. He knew better than this. He’d stood by stonefaced for years in Meredith’s office as a procession of tawdry nobles sniffed and bitched to her, and she to them. There had been a particular lord of Tantervale who set his teeth on edge, a perfumed snake of a man who fawned and pretended, waiting for his chance to strike. He’d been dreaming of that vacant keep, that extinct vicomte title, and he’d been pestering his seneschal to cough up some halfway decent proof of lineage that would connect him to the waiting prize in Kirkwall. 

Fergus was different, and Cullen was in his home country now, if anything was to feel like home anymore. In truth it felt like a walk with a right boot worn on the left. He should know these places and these things

The teyrn strolled with him now in a gallery of new armors, a handsome set of tapestries along the wall that depicted the Fifth Blight. Cullen hadn’t recalled there being two dragons, but a black dragon faced off with Urthemiel as a team of heroes fought from the ramparts. Every major faction was depicted below: the mages, the templars, the men and women of Ferelden, the elves, and even— Cullen noted— a golem.

“I’m told you are related to Stanton of Honnleath?” Cousland asked him as they walked. He was patting the head of a great slobbering mabari that bumped along with them.

“He was my mother’s brother, my father’s friend,” Cullen replied.

Cousland beamed. “My father spoke of him a time or two, telling the old war stories. Quite the hero.”

If they knew him, even tangentially, most people smiled when they spoke of Stanton. Cullen said, “It was kind of your father to remember him so.”

“A wild one, too. A great fighter at the Battle of River Dane. I hear you’ve got the same sword arm.”

“I would have liked to have met him.”

“I like to believe that one day you shall.” Fergus Cousland favored him with a gentle smile. “It’s an honor to welcome the Inquisition here to Highever, though I wish these were happier circumstances.”

“The life of Divine Justinia is worth remembrance,” Cullen answered.

Cousland smiled. “I wish she could have lived to see the Maker grant such a blessing upon an elf,” he said. “Our alienage here is abuzz with excitement, and Bann Tabris tells me there is much curiosity in Denerim also. The White Halla, isn’t that what the Orlesians are calling her?” 

That would the nonsense, yes. “I’ve heard such things,” Cullen allowed. “The Herald wishes not to overshadow the vigil for Justinia; I’m to understand she prefers to draw little attention to herself while she is here.”

“Leliana informed me. She underlined that twice in her letter.” Fergus chuckled. “I understand; I’ll do my best to shield her from the other nobles, if that’s her wish. They’ll have another time to paw and sniff at her. Say, do you have an interest in hawking, Cullen? Not now, of course… "

“Much more in the past. Not recently.”

“We’ll have to change that. You’ll have to come out again. Perhaps the festival in Redcliffe soon.” Fergus shook his shoulder in a friendly grip. Cullen was almost sure that he meant it, too. “Now, the only noble I can’t save you from is the great Herself. I’m sure the tale of the Inquisition’s defense of the queen is already boasted in the halls and taverns.”

The pain squeezed and resettled behind his eyes. “And I’m sure that even at this point it has abandoned most resemblance toward reality.” 

“Oh, I bet it's being said that the White Halla has smote the Venatori with the wrath of the Maker, and that the swooning monarch has been lifted from the rubble in the brawny arms of your handsome Tevinter.”

Weary though he was, Cullen couldn’t hold back a quick smirk of a smile. “About Master Pavus. I would ask that he were extended special courtesy as a guest here. I am concerned that not everyone will appreciate the enormous risks he has taken upon himself by helping us. To put it frankly, I don’t want anyone spoiling for a fight with the Tevinter.” 

The teyrn set a hand upon the breast of his tunic. “Of course, Ser Cullen. Leliana has already said as much to me. Not to worry, we have done the Altus a special favor, and I’ve had him set up in our little _mage tower_. All manner of little oddities and things for him to get into. Warden Surana spent a summer with us there and we’re still finding all the things he’s squirreled away.”

Surana. It had always been strange to hear that name again in passing, either by word on the wind or friends who knew him. Cullen felt his mood turning, the work of the headache, no doubt, brought on by a trying afternoon saturated with the sharp scent of lyrium.

He bowed his head in thanks. “You have my gratitude, my lord,” he said. “I must see that my men are settled.”

“Of course. I’ve set aside one of my best rooms for you, Ser Cullen,” Cousland told him. “Leliana tells me you like maps, so I’ve had some curiosities set out for your amusement. You might also take note of the bookcase in there, too. It’s a favorite.” He winked in such a way that Cullen would only later take his meaning. 

...............

He checked in on his men, but Blackwall had beaten him to it. The gruff warden was seeing to the horses, and he showed them a remarkable gentleness that they always seem to trust right off. When Cullen came through, Blackwall was engrossed with a hoof injury; Lavellan’s mount had been brought in riderless from the forest. The gelding had thrown a shoe. 

“She’s not used to riding horses, I don’t think,” the warden told him. “Still. We’ll get him patched up, and she can take one of mine on the way back." 

“Thank you, Blackwall. You’ve done perfectly.” 

The man shrugged it off. “Anything you need.” A proud grin, then. “I saw Anora giving her thanks to the Inquisitor. What a sight, with her fresh from the kill! I’m sure ‘demoiselle is having the vapors, the poor thing.”

Cullen smiled tightly. “I’m sure Josephine would have strongly preferred that to go differently, but it’s good to see the Herald in the thick of things. She fights for what she believes in.”

“The Chargers did well also. The lieutenant in particular.”

“Pass along my compliments.”

“Right, then. I’ll keep an eye on the boys here and keep them honest for the vigil. I don’t want to be pulling your honor guard out of the tavern just an hour prior...” 

...............

Cullen tried to tamp down a wriggling sense of unease. They would be safe here, for the most part. The Venatori would hardly dare to attack the castle with so many Fereldan nobles gathered. This wasn’t Orlais, a nest of poisonous whispers and intrigue. Even the most bitter enemy of the queen would hardly sit by and watch her murder. And nothing would happen to Teyrn Cousland, their host; Leliana would never permit it. Cullen was to understand that Leliana had been a particular friend of his younger brother, a Grey Warden, when she traveled with the Heroes of Ferelden.

Torches lit the evening courtyard. A mustering crowd of noble houses were starting to gather in earnest upon Highever, and their flags and banners were hung throughout to announce their presence. The vigil meant a show of respect to the late divine but also a show of fealty to the lords. Retainers scuttled about everywhere, while men-at-arms sized up one another, looking ready to fight, fierce, but fun, too, in that cheerful aggression of his countrymen. Cullen imagined the disaster that would befall the Venatori if they tried to attack here, especially once the Fereldan lads had gotten into their pints. This thought led naturally to a renewed concern for Dorian. It was difficult to be the foreigner; Cullen had learned that in Kirkwall, even a place that seemed so similar in culture— at first glance.

There wasn’t to be any formal banquet or reception tonight, thank the Maker, out of observation of the vigil yet to come. Still, Cousland remained a friendly host, and all manner of rich and hearty foods were provided. Thick soups, crusty breads, cuts of meat. Dried fruits from the winter stores. Root vegetables. Casks of wine dragged up from the cellars. It was a great mercy not to have to sit at some fussy high table, even a Fereldan one. A decade of lyrium had chipped away at his sense of taste, even now, and food seemed like a chore he must endure. Especially when his nerves were at the ready. He still felt like something could happen.

Perhaps it was only the fault of his headache, a pain that crushed slowly and inexorably behind his eyes, but sometimes he thought he saw a shimmer just out of reach. There was something he felt he was meant to remember, but he couldn’t call it to mind.


	3. Vigil, iii

A liveried servant was lighting the sconces in Cullen’s room when he arrived. Another had just brought the last pail of steaming water to his bath. Despite the mess of the ambush, Cullen hadn’t gotten much blood on him, but his boots were caked in mud. A footman had taken a wire brush to them. These things Cullen preferred to do himself, long accustomed to caring for his own gear. At least they scattered when he waved them off; he could remove his armor and kit himself.

Once he was alone, he stood slack and staring at the room around him as he worked at his buckles. Tapestries warmed the walls, most of green and grey colors with expressive knotwork. Ornate wood panels stood against the framed timbers, the designs carved into doglike faces. The teyrn or his brother must have collected a few weapons in their travels, nothing that Cullen recognized to be any great legend, but there were certainly items that spoke of cultural interest. He saw an impressive blade mounted on a plaque, a qunari weapon meant to be hefted by massive hands. 

Cullen remembered the sheer force and destruction wrought by even a single swing of that type of sword. The qunlat name eluded him. He would remember it later, when the pressure subsided from his eyes. In Ferelden, the qunari could be thought of highly by some, who still remembered the _sten_ that fought alongside the wardens in the blight. Not like Kirkwall.

Against the eastern window, a heavy oak desk bore a sheaf of maps and charts. He could imagine the teyrn sitting there by morning light, drinking his tea, tracing over routes and forests. Perhaps he toyed with one of those leather books with Antivan titles. The teyrn had been married to a woman of that country. He wondered if Cousland could ever live a peaceful life again, if any of them ever could. 

Cullen divested himself of his mantle, giving it a thick fold as he lay it across the high back of a wooden chair. He hoped one of the mabari didn’t explore by and give it a sniff; they seemed to always take an interest in the thick ruff of fur. After the mantle he could pull away the plates of armor, setting them by. The weight came off him with a sigh. He rolled his shoulders, feeling them tight and hunched. With his left hand he pulled his right elbow in a point above his head, feeling it stretch, hearing it pop. He wanted to return to his routine of exercises, but he knew if he went to the floor now to do them, the pain in his head might keep him there. 

The restorative waters of the bath would do him well. Let the heat soak into his muscles. Until the Inquisition, it had been years since he had ridden a horse. Not in Kirkwall, not at Kinloch, or even in the chantry. It wasn’t something you forgot, though. 

A hot bath meant one of the few moments of peace in his day. Here, though, he couldn’t feel comfortable when he closed his eyes. His weapon lay on a chair nearby, within the reach of his right hand if he stretched. He held a clear view of the door that led into the room, and he had locked it himself with the iron key that rested also on that chair.

His eyes twitched anyhow. He couldn’t keep them closed. The last time he had felt this way, a tiny blood vessel had burst in his right eye, and a dark red had spilled across the white. He hated that. It drew too much attention.

He was pinching the bridge of his nose when voices sparked in a nearby room. Years of experience had primed him to listen for arguments and ugly human entanglements. There were always high emotions in the Circle. He gripped the sides of the copper bath, ready, but the speaking voice chopped on in a ranting tone. It was Cassandra.

Cullen thought he heard her say something close to, "...run away and avoid his responsibilities!" 

Were they in the adjacent room?

He recognized the voice of the Herald as she attempted to get a word in edgewise. She seemed not to be the target of Cassandra’s disapproval. He wondered what the matter would be: had something gone wrong? Had Anora done something? Not wishing to eavesdrop, but unable to help the way sound carried from the room, Cullen huffed out a sigh. He only wanted to try to relax for a scant few moments. 

The conversation blurred as he bathed himself. By the time he washed the gritty something out of his hair, and water ran out of his ear, he heard nothing but silence from the next room. 

Until… Lasamahl’s voice, close to the bookshelf, said, “Did you hear any of that?”

“Inquisitor?” There was something about the bookshelf he tried to remember. Didn’t Cousland say…

A book wiggled on the shelf. Then a slim white hand of raw knuckles protruded. The fingers opened and shut. “Isn’t this very clever?” Lasamahl asked through the books. “I think there’s a way that the shelf… it rotates somehow, out of the way. It might be on your side.”

Cullen felt heat on his face and throat. “Well,” he said, “I can’t reach it from the bath.” 

Her soft laugh floated to him. “Oh, oh, I’m sorry.” Her hand slithered back into the books. “Didn’t the teyrn tell you that our rooms connected?”

“He didn’t.” Cullen smirked to think that Cousland had furnished them with some kind of paramour arrangement. Maker. Did everyone know at this point?

"Does that... bother you?" 

"No, it doesn't. If I'm to be your bodyguard, as you insisted, then you might need me."

Her laugh again. "I do need you." The tone intensified his blush. He wished he could banter better with women, but somehow they always gained the upper hand. He'd no trouble with the men. Perhaps he was used to yelling at them all the time.

Cullen cleared his throat. "Perhaps it's none of my business, but I heard Cassandra's voice. Is something the matter?"

"Everything is fine," Lasamahl answered. Though she kept Cassandra's business close, Cullen suspected that Varric Tethras might be the cause of her displeasure. He always seemed to be, these days. "There are a few matters to settle when we return, that's all."

"I've a mountain of work awaiting me. "

"Like always. The others will have to learn."

Cullen only sighed. 

"It was good we were here for the queen," she told him. "You did well." 

"Thank you, but it was mostly the Chargers, Dorian, and Blackwall. He's found your horse, by the way."

" _Fenedhis_... I hoped someone would." She sighed, and then, he heard her touching a book on the shelf. It was a slim volume of Antivan something. "Do you mind me talking to you, while you have your bath?"

"No, I don't mind." He was going to regret this. "Do... do you wish to come over?"

"Only if.. if you wish me to."

"You'll have to figure it out on your side, then." 

"I don't know how it opens."

"And who among us is the rogue?"

"Is... is this too quick?" Her voice came shyly through the shelf then. "For your people?"

Cullen felt himself respond to her uncertainty. He wanted to bundle her close. It helped that sometimes she seemed as unsure as he did. This could be a journey they might travel together. But to be clear, and perhaps to put her at ease, he told her, "I've too much of a headache to be any use to you, but you are welcome to keep me company, over there or in here. It's-- it's all right."

"Your head hurts you so often."

"I'm sorry."

"How could that be your fault?" 

A click sounded. "Something's happening," she said, a note of excitement spiking in her voice. Cullen watched as the white hands poked through the shelf, feeling about, and then one slid back. The shelf rotated out of the way, turning in toward some hidden recession in the wall.

Lasamahl stood in the gap, still messy from the day's events. She wore a fresh set of clothing, a cream-colored tunic and buff breeches. It all looked soft. She had scrubbed herself down at least somewhat; her arms and hands and face showed the scratchy red of a determined washing. Her hair was wet in spikes. They were calling her the White Halla, as if she were some delicate girl, but Cullen had always thought of her more like a scrappy little she-wolf, raw, quick, ready to scratch and nip. 

She looked him in the eye as she padded barefoot into his room. She was making herself brave. Sometimes she shied away from him, giddy and embarrassed, but sometimes she could be fearsome, too, running her eyes over him like she threatened to take out a bite. He wasn't entirely certain how to handle her, yet, and he felt his heart thumping somewhere toward his throat.

Show no fear, he found himself thinking, as if he were about to step into the grand chamber of a defiled tomb with a sword gripped in his hand. He felt clarity in moments of mortal danger, but something like this, a normal, comforting intimacy, was altogether different. It had been years since he had freely enjoyed the comfort of another.

Cullen followed her with a steady look as she came toward the edge of the candlelight. She interested herself in his armor and personal effects, not straying too close, like a wild animal sniffing at the edges of the camp. Yet she peeped at him too from the corners of her eyes. He was big for the tub and he didn't think she could really see too much of his body, there, but he could almost feel her gaze as it stroked along his chest and shoulders.

Her smile was shy. "You're very handsome," she said. "It's my luck that no woman has stolen you yet." She picked up his furry mantle and held it out in both hands, looking down upon it.

"Too much work to do."

"And nothing for yourself?" 

It used to be that the lyrium had solved that on its own. The stirring he felt presently was rare, yet welcome. A pleasurable sensation that seemed to dull the pain behind his eyes. But how to explain... 

She put down his mantle gently, as if it were a sleeping pet to be tucked back into place. "I lived with another clan for some time," she said. "They were very caught up in their ways. I've... I've not been with a human before." 

"It's, ah, much the same," he reassured her. "I-- I'll be kind to you." He meant to sound gentle, but his voice hardly rose above a whisper.

She grinned. “Then you have been with an elf before?"

“Only one."

“Was she very different from me?”

He felt like the heat off his face and throat might keep his bathwater warm for some time yet. Maker. “Ah.. In about every way, yes.” 

Lasamahl traced her fingers over the pauldrons on the table. "I don't mean to pry." A slight smile over her shoulder. "Perhaps only a little. I hope that we could... that we could share things together." 

"As do I."

Their eyes met, and she gave him a melting look that made his heart constrict. Her hands played through some of the items on the chair, the sheath of his sword, the iron key. Then she found his silver coin, his lucky one, where he had taken it from the safety of his inner pocket.

"Tell me more about who you were before this," he prompted her. "I mean-- only if you wish to."

"I was foolish, mostly," she answered. "I was a hunter in the Free Marches. Once I lived in Tantervale for a season, in their alienage."

"What did you think of it?"

"I didn't like it," she said softly. "Everyone seemed so defeated. I made potions in a shop, working for an herbalist. Swiftwind hated it there-- my elk. He missed the forest."

"You rode an elk, then. No horses?"

"Horses panic. Skittish. Unsteady. Swiftwind was smart, quick. He could turn on this coin! He knew words when you spoke them to him, and I hardly had to give him direction. I could shoot from the saddle so much better."

Her face lit as she told him this, and Cullen smiled somewhat sadly, sensing the answer to his proceeding question. "What became of Swiftwind?"

"I let him go, before the Conclave," she said. "I didn't know if I'd be captured. I don't know if he was killed in the blast, or by all the demons. I miss him so. I raised him from a calf-- he was a gift for my... a gift."

Cullen sensed a wealth of hidden pain. "Perhaps he went free. He might be living in the mountains now."

Lasamahl smiled a gentle smile that did not reach her eyes. Whatever it was, she had already struggled to make her peace. After a moment, she changed direction. "Bann Shianni will be taking me to meet the city elves tomorrow. Will you come with me?"

He nodded. "If you like."

She turned the coin over in her hand, and then she took a step toward him. Her face seemed to ask if it were allowed.

Damning the pain that rattled his head, Cullen eased back into the tub. He set his hands on the rim of the tub, unsure what else to do with them.

Lasamahl kept her eyes on his eyes, moving slowly, as if she might stop short at any moment. If he had said anything, or even if his expression changed. He was sure of that. There was a fretting compassion that overtook her sometimes. He wanted to reassure her, as she did for him. He liked to think they made each other stronger.

Of course he had wondered what she would be like. Fierce yet sweet. He knew he could recover from the lyrium, even when freedom seemed so elusive some days. Hadn’t Carver Hawke gone on to father two children.

She slid up close to the tub, kneeling beside it. He expected her to try to peek; he felt a nervous energy, but if he searched himself, he wanted her to want him. He was aware he had been blessed with a fine body and good looks. Her attention wasn’t the wrong kind, not a crush from one of his charges or one of the younger templars, no, nothing like that. He had worried over her position— but it seemed well-received by most others in Skyhold. The ones who mattered. He supposed it had all crystallized in that moment when he carried her out of the snow to the camp.

She reached out for his hand. Their fingers twined together. He smiled at her, and she drew down on her knee, a kind of bending motion as she leaned along the tub to kiss him. His body thrilled at the sensation of her lips. Something about his being nude, and her still clothed. For a blessed moment the low feeling of pleasure lessened the ache in his eyes and his joints. 

Cullen slid his fingers through her hair, and though he hadn't intended to do so, he deepened their kiss. He felt entirely out of practice, but she responded so readily to him that it didn't matter. He was close to wanting just to pull her into the tub with him, but he knew it would be cruel to tease her.

When they broke, he gazed into her eyes, trying to find the way to put an explanation into words. Sadly, he thought she must know that something was wrong with him. He was fighting to get better.

Very close to her, breathing the same air, he could torment himself with the idea of a future together. He knew it too soon to ask her anything like that now, but he didn't let himself love anyone too easily. He'd been foolish once and it near destroyed him. 

Lasamahl held his eyes. He nodded toward her, and they touched together, forehead to forehead. One of her hands fell to his chest. He felt something. It was the coin.

The coin slipped down into the bathwater. 

"I've made a wish," she whispered, eyes flashing with mischief.

"What was it?"

She grinned at him as she drew away. "I can't tell you, or else it won't come true." 

"You know, that was my lucky coin."

"Mine too."

He heaved a sigh through a weary smile. "You had best get back to your room."

...............

Cullen remembered only the lightest touch of talons from his dream. Fine points of faint pressure sliding along his face. He hadn't drifted deeply enough for the age-old nightmare to fully develop. He could never sleep in a bed that was different from his own, and he felt ill-rested, blunted, his head full of wet wool. 

He had awakened to the sound of servants reporting to help Lasamahl prepare herself. Though kind to them, she was having none of it, and he could hear her trying to figure out her clothing for herself. For a rogue she could be very sloppy and loud, although Garrett Hawke had been living proof that subtlety was not always the hallmark of that profession. In fact, Hawke had been about the _worst_ rogue he had ever seen...

Cullen pulled himself out of bed eventually to go through his morning routine, his stretches and exercise. His shoulders were tight, and just as he'd suspected, there was an ache in his inner thighs from the riding. 

She talked lightly to him as she dressed for the drizzle of the day. Could she still wear breeches if she put on the dress? she'd asked him. You're the chosen one, you can do what you like, was his response, and she'd laughed then. She had left the bookshelf passage open, and he experienced a wistful sort of sadness. With a blurry, aching head, he thought how it had been some time since he had shared a casual intimacy like this with anyone. He hadn't known the depth of its loss until now.

When she needed help with a clasp on her dress, she called him through, and he smiled to see her in the clothing that Josephine had set aside. 

"These sleeves are awful," Lasamahl told him. "How will I ever shoot my bow?" She held up her hands and the ruffles fell back from her wrists.

"You won't need to. Let the rest of us protect you."

"Do you think I look all right? For... for the city elves."

"You look lovely."

"I feel silly. I don't dress myself like this." Lasamahl sighed. He saw her eyes flicker to the long knife laying across her dressing table; the dagger looked out of place against the delicate hand mirror and bristlebrush of a lady's set of things. "I look like Orlais exploded... "

"Don't cut off your sleeves, please. Josephine... means well."

She leaned back against him, and his hands moved to her waist. Her dress fell in stiff panels of fabric, waiting to be fixed and clasped. It could wait a moment more. Underneath his touch, her body felt thin, ragged, tense. She turned and took his wrist, looking up at him with an expression he did not know entirely. 

He kissed her, and her tongue flickered out to taste his lip-scar. His free hand stole into the open dress, and her skin felt hot.

"We're going to miss the chant," she laughed. 

Bann Shianni Tabris awaited them in the lower gallery of the keep. Her hands rested on the tall frame of a carven chair, and she chatted quietly with Josephine before a massive fireplace. They were sizing one another up, to judge from the looks that passed between them, but there was more curiosity in it than anything else.

Cullen had been told he met the cousin of this woman, the one-time Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. He remembered next to nothing of Kallian Tabris: he'd had only the impression of a hard female voice, cold and direct. She had been the eldest in the group of new wardens, a hefty five-and-twenty at the time. The rest were about nineteen. 

How did we survive any of that.

The elven bann was a redheaded woman of tawny skin, almost forty, with a vibrant and intelligent personality. Cullen sensed a firmness to her, also, but she displayed a cautious sort of optimism as she introduced herself to Lavellan.

As their guide, she ran Lasamahl through the activities of the morning, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. Cassandra emerged from the western corridor, droplets of water shimmering upon the pauldrons of her armor. Her hand rested against the hilt of her sword, and she caught Cullen's eye, affording him a tight nod of her chin.

Blackwall appeared some good distance behind her. His thick fingers were probing beneath the padded fabric of his collar, where it seemed his gambeson had failed to truly absorb some monumental blow. At once Cullen understood that he and Cassandra had opened the morning with a sparring session. A brave man, Blackwall. Cullen remembered the tone of Cassandra's voice from last night. The warden met his questing eye and his look quite plainly said, _Don't try her today._

The last to join the party was something unexpected, but not unwelcome. Dorian padded over to them, heavy-lidded, looking full of himself. Cullen took in his outfit with a smirk; he imagined Dorian in front of a mirror, holding a succession of clothes against his body, trying to hone in on that one combination that would make him appear the most decadent and evil Tevinter. 

He'd apparently picked the second-most. Indigo robes with a faint iridescent shimmer. Silvery-blue thread stitched in the shape of serpents. A succession of fancy rings, one of them something of an articulated metal talon. 

Cullen was only thankful that the scent of lyrium had dissipated. He wasn't sure he could deal with Dorian this morning otherwise. 

"I've never been to an alienage before," Dorian said to him. "I can't be curious, hmm?"

"I didn't say anything."

"You were looking it," Dorian replied. Then a smile broke out across his face. "Unless, no, you just have that look sometimes. I think you were just born grumpy. Ha ha ha, good morning to you too, Dorian Pavus." 

Cullen sighed. "But now that you mention it, I'd no idea that elven culture interested you."

"You've missed all my heart-to-hearts with Solas, you know, when we snuggle together by the campfire." 

"That is certainly a mental picture."

"He's actually quite interesting. You wouldn't think it, though, since he usually just disapproves of everything like a constipated dowager. Lately we've been discussing the similarities between imperial and elven magic."

He thought of what Blackwall told him about Solas. _That man knows everything about everything_. And also not to play him at cards, apparently.

Despite the everpresent drizzle, the citizens of the alienage were crowding in to see the Herald of Andraste. Bann Shianni had brought her own retainers to keep matters orderly. Cassandra and Cullen kept close, while Dorian and Blackwall followed some length behind. Cullen was beginning to truly appreciate the help of the warden. His attitude spoke of a military professional, with just enough underhandedness to let you know he'd get the job done. Grey Wardens did what they had to do for the mission. So did the templars, but the wardens never burdened themselves with moral predicaments. 

Dorian was an object of some interest to the elves, particularly the young ones. Cullen thought he heard the words "Tevinter necromancer" being spoken behind someone's hand. Though he disapproved of the specialty, Cullen didn't it think it fair that Dorian had to be called the _necromancer_ when southern mages were at least afforded the title of _Mortalitasi_. It was all the same thing dressed up differently. In this case, however, perhaps it was helpful to illustrate that the Herald befriended persons from all walks of life.

"Thank you for joining us, Blackwall," Cullen murmured to him as they passed further into the alienage. "It's good to have a warden seen with us."

"The order has always been a welcome place for elves," Blackwall replied, a kind of gentleness to a voice that always sounded blustery. "One of the few places they could go and live like equals."

"Like Garahel."

"Garahel and Crookytail." Blackwall smiled. "Give it time. Tabris and Surana will have their songs too." 

The Ballad of Ayesleigh was written to commemorate Garahel's valiant sacrifice against the Old God Andoral. Not to minimize Surana's accomplishments in any sense, the heroics of the Fifth Blight never aligned with Cullen's memory of the young elven mage from the tower. He had a distinct recollection of someone crippled by severe test anxiety. 

The respected persons of the alienage came to greet their party, exchanging greetings with the bann and the Herald. The _hahren_ was a woman of ancient years, a dark-skinned elf with frost-white hair. Her striking appearance reminded Cullen of the tattooed elven fighter that had kept company with Hawke in Kirkwall. Some ritual blessing passed between her and the Herald, who took her hands, her face shining with a genuine goodwill and kindness.

Cassandra's mood seemed to have lightened, and she looked very much the Seeker of Truth, her presence a calm strength at the Herald's side. It was difficult not to feel an expanding sense of something powerful among the elves gathered here. Something mysterious. Lasamahl was someone they needed, another elven hero sent to them by the Maker. Another reminder that they mattered. That He knew their sorrows. Cullen wondered if he should feel guilty for taking her for himself.

The _hahren_ brought them before their holy tree. Cullen had only seen the one in Kirkwall, sad yet defiant, with its twisted branches held high through the smoky air. The Highever tree was painted as that other one, colorful designs all about its trunk, the blues and greens of the city. Painted handprints marked all along the bark, handprints of all sizes. Howe’s men had taken a few token swings at the tree with their axes, but it had withstood their petty rages.

A chantry sister waited for them there, a woman who had likely served the spiritual needs of the alienage for many years. Her gentle manner spoke of a long cooperation with the elven elders, the warm smile and soft words exchanged. Cullen knew that it varied widely if the elves received the chant. Though forced to submit to the chantry long ago, shut up in the alienages, the city elves were not always tended well by any religious service or outreach. 

In Kirkwall, the chantry's most frequent and trusted representative had been the prince of Starkhaven, before he had set aside his vows as priest. Despite whatever misdeeds he had gotten up to when he ran with Hawke's crew, Brother Sebastian had shown a true depth of kindness and compassion to the elves. Sometimes you would see him rambling around the city with the elven fighter in their band-- Fenris, that had been the man's name. A real friendship there.

The chantry sister's was not the only human face among the alienage; the children of mixed unions were always born looking human. Cullen saw a few of them holding the hands of their brothers and sisters, or peeping out from a parent's protective embrace. It spoke well of Highever that you saw any of them at all. He'd heard stories of city elf mothers cast out in shame, or _wrong_ babies abandoned or worse.

The _hahren_ stepped forth to introduce Bann Shianni Tabris and the Herald. Lady Tabris was kind enough to introduce the companions with their names and titles. Cullen saw Dorian arch his eyebrows with unexpected satisfaction when the bann correctly called him an altus. Blackwall seemed to be of most interest of their little group of followers. Cullen detected a slight unease from him with attention turned upon him. He was always that way.

It appeared that the Herald was being asked to say a few words. She reacted with a momentary flutter of nervous energy, and then she flashed a smile. Cullen thought of a wolf's ears laying back, a quick panting. She played with the ruffles on her sleeve as she began, "My name is Lasamahl of Clan Lavellan. I am honored to stand before you."

She took a breath and continued, her words gaining power as she spoke them. The anxious tremor smoothed out of her voice as she looked among the faces of the alienage, her people, even if their lives had been so different. "I know there are fearful whispers on the wind," she began again. "I know it seems the world itself comes apart. It seemed the world ended when the blight came. Then the uprisings. Then the rifts in the sky. But the old stories of our people, they tell us that the end only marks a new beginning. In the wild, we see the world in a cycle like the seasons, and this bitter frost will give way soon to warmth and light. We are stronger for the hardships we endure. I believe we are on the cusp of a new era, one of wonder and joy. The way of the Maker is mysterious. I do not claim to know His design, but I humbly ask you to consider His works. Please, let us now receive the Chant."

Cullen knew she rehearsed her words sometimes, pacing back and forth with Mother Giselle in the Skyhold garden. She was still a learner herself. Life in an alienage was often mean, even in one like Highever, but he could sense a kind of respect and even wistful yearning among a number of elves in attendance. Even though the sky misted a cold wet upon them, and the sun was nowhere to be seen.

..............

The drizzle dripped into rain as the day continued, and it seemed a storm might come their way. The wind blew one of those cold damp breezes that had no distinct drops of water in it, yet it left you wet regardless. At least the vigil would be held indoors, unspoiled by the threat of rain, and as their party returned to the keep, Cullen saw the servants and sisters hurrying about the chantry for preparations, trying to limit their exposure to the weather.

After the alienage, Cullen sought out Cassandra, who insisted that everything was how it should be. He wondered if he should broach the topic of Varric Tethras, but he found himself was at odds with his own opinion. If there were no formal charges, then Varric was free to go. And if there _were_ formal charges, from before all this happened, then those charges would merely be dropped. They had no time for such foolishness now.

But did Varric bear some responsibility in the conflict that faced them all? Furthermore, did he truly not know Hawke's whereabouts, or was that merely a ploy to shield his friend? And though he would not remark this to Cassandra aloud, if Varric were keeping Hawke's location close, well-- you couldn't blame the man. Cassandra could interrogate him all she liked, but she could never know how things truly had been in Kirkwall. She hadn't been there for all the madness.

Anyhow, there was no use working oneself into a lather before they had all the information. There was nothing to be done about Varric now. But _so help him_ if Cullen returned to find Garrett Hawke lounging around Skyhold as if nothing had happened...

In the muddy courtyard, Cullen looked among the banners of the lords and the livery of their men, but he saw no one to represent his former bann. The absence stood out to him. House Barris had always been known for its dedication to the chantry, and this gathering was intended for no less a purpose than a vigil for the late Divine. His natural suspicion began to hunt for a reason, but, then, he supposed that not every noble house could cough up someone for the service. It couldn't be a statement against the Herald.

Cullen and Lasamahl had hardly returned to their rooms when a page sent word for them. Of course, Cullen preferred to address Inquisition matters whenever possible-- even away from Skyhold, and perhaps especially when away-- but part of him grated that they'd only had a scant moment together. She was trying to struggle out of her dress, having had enough of it already. She had enlisted his help for the task, though his interest warred with embarrassment when she nearly answered her door clad only in breeches and a breastband. 

It turned out to be a summons to the teyrn's library. As soon as they arrived, he realized that Josephine had not been teasing him when she had patted his arm and told him not to worry, that they could still hold a war table out in Highever. Oh, he'd said, are you going to pack it with all of your things?

Josephine had not in fact packed their war table, though you'd never know it given the amount of luggage she'd brought along for this trip. Cullen alone had helped her with at least two hatboxes before he'd wondered how he'd been talked into that. He wondered if Anora herself had been forced to jostle along in a carriage of Josephine's things. Would serve her right.

It was the sort of library that Cullen could imagine losing many hours in. Carven wood panels, a roaring fireplace, dyed leather tomes of gilt lettering. The keepsakes of adventures hanging all around them. Rich carpets of wool and silk. A mabari stretched out panting and happy. Chairs had been set before the fire and a table laid with refreshments.

Cullen knew to expect the ladies, but he hadn't counted on the teyrn. Yet he couldn't say he was too surprised. The man seemed thick with Leliana.

Fergus Cousland caught his eye and winked, a glass of wine held in his hand. He stood facing the chairs, the ornate metal screen of the fireplace at his back. He was wearing some Rialto-style shirt in red and yellow, looking sharp. "Herald, Commander Cullen," he said. "Welcome. I thought you would appreciate the chance to speak freely. Please, may I interest you in a drink?"

Dorian's new valet was pouring Josephine a glass, whispering softly to her as he did so. Her eyes blazed merry and bright. The man was quite possibly one of the most handsome elves that Cullen had ever seen. Bronze skin, slender and muscled, with thick blond hair that fell just so. Dancing eyes, somehow both mischievous and compassionate. Cullen experienced a sense of having seen him somewhere before, but he could not say where. 

It was as though Cassandra fought to tear her eyes away, but the Herald only looked suspicious. She would wait for him to leave the room before they began. 

Leliana seemed different here, relaxed, almost. Of course, the Couslands were friends of hers, and Cullen held a cautious expectation that this might get them somewhere with the teyrn. 

"I thank you for your confidence," the Herald told him. "We waste too much time with games."

"I agree. This is _Ferelden_ , after all." Fergus brought the glass to his lips. "Sorry, Leliana! I hope you haven't poisoned this."

Cullen exchanged a glance with Cassandra, satisfied to see a slight smirk tugging at her lips.

Leliana laughed lightly as she replied, "Even in Ferelden, games must be played. You've done well so far for yourself, have you not?"

The smile receded from the teyrn's face, though a sobered kindness glimmered in his eyes. "The Maker has blessed me," he said. "Despite the tragedy that has befallen my house, we have endured, and we will be stronger for it."

The Herald bowed her head. "We know that Ferelden has suffered greatly in the blight, and that her sacrifices have shielded all of Thedas from larger destruction. It pains me to ask for still more from you. If Corypheus wins, then it will have all been for nothing."

"Our lands had only begun to recover when the rebellions broke out. Queen Anora offered safe haven to the mages who wished to leave the conflict. We were the only nation to have done so. And... you've seen yourself what became of that. Fire and destruction. Refugees everywhere. Burnt crops. Livestock dead in their fields." Cousland sighed. "But I understand. This isn't the right time, but then, it never is. You've spoken the truth. There's no going back now. So, what will you ask of me?"

The Herald shared a look with Josephine.

"You have a good grasp of the moods and feelings of the court," the ambassador began.

"Yes, there's plenty of moods and feelings, I'll grant you that much." 

The Herald grinned, and Cullen found himself trying to resist without knowing why. When had anyone ever been so straightforward with them.

Josephine continued, "Her Majesty finds herself in a precarious position. A commoner, widow of a king from a beloved house, who met his death-- arguably-- at the hands of her own father. The two contenders for the crown have formally abdicated, and, thus, she remains. Some might say that the villain prevailed."

"Oh, they do say that, but the fact remains that the queen has proven herself a competent ruler. I agreed with her decision to offer haven to the mages. It shouldn't have happened the way that it did, but how were we to know that at the time? I would say that Anora's position is secure. There is no one else whose claim approaches hers, so, we will have a measure of stability for now." 

"Then there is the matter of your claim, my lord," Josephine put in softly. "Have you no desire?"

Cullen frowned. It would be an immense advantage to have the King of Ferelden as their ally, but he sensed it would not be that simple. 

Fergus revealed no surprise at such a line of inquiry. He went to pour himself another glass; Josephine almost rose to do so on his behalf, but he waved her off with a chuckle. "I'm aware of my claim. The Couslands are an ancient house, second only to the Theirins. Yet there's no advantage for House Cousland there. I can best help my own people here as their teyrn. As a miserable prince consort, there's only politics. I could move pieces on the board, but I'd lose who I am. I've lost enough already. I only want to marry again and muck about here in Highever." 

"What of Ser Alistair?" the Herald asked.

"Alistair abandoned his claim ten years ago," Leliana said. "The Landsmeet was the point of no return."

Josephine cut in gently, saying, "What if there were a unique situation," for Lady Montilyet was nothing if not a lady who could appreciate a unique situation...

"He wants to be a Grey Warden." Cousland shrugged. "Oh I'm sure someone as enterprising as you ladies might be able to dig up some obscure antique precedent that leads him back to the throne, but he's joined the order. It is final."

"In any case," Leliana continued, "Ser Alistair shows no more interest in the throne of his land than Lady Pentaghast for the crown of Nevarra."

Cassandra pulled a face. It was not one of her classic _ughs_ , but Cullen could sense a general play upon that theme.

"Ha, there, exactly." Cousland smirked. "Now, before we tread too closely on uncomfortable topics, with the great Herself beneath my very roof, let's move on, shall we?" He made his eyes very large in an _uh-oh_ sort of way, and then he mouthed, "Long live the queen" over his wine before taking a drink. 

"Of course, my lord," Josephine replied. "It is good to clarify such matters. We only wished to learn what to expect. Given your high standing among your peers, it would greatly help our mission if you were to alleviate concerns regarding the Inquisition and to help others understand the gravity of this situation." 

"Consider it done. Some of the others fear your motives, but I understand what is at stake. My subservient lords will fall into step. I'll do my best to sort out the others, but you know they'll always gossip. What else?" 

Josephine demurred to Leliana, who said, "You know what I want."

"I think I do, but, let's jot you down for a tentative... yes?" Fergus had begun to smile again. "My scouts? Juicy gossip? My stinky little brother? Shall I just toss out a number of things until one hits the mark?"

Judging by the look on her face-- blink and you'd miss it-- Cullen thought that one of those certainly hit close to a mark of some sort.

Leliana toyed with her glass of wine. "I've heard from Ser Alistair and Brosca since the Conclave, but Surana eludes me. I understand he might have sent word to you." 

Caught, Cousland only grinned in a sheepish way. "Surana expressed his, ah, concerns, about the Inquisition." 

"His concerns," Leliana said darkly.

"He said he'd heard you'd gone and joined a little cult, and he didn't like it, it sounded crazy." Cousland raised his eyebrows as if to say, _his words, not mine_. "I told him to come off it. However, the appearance of Corypheus on the stage will certainly change his mind. I'm sure he'd give his left... ear to face off in a wizard duel against a legendary Tevinter magister."

Leliana appeared neither surprised nor impressed. "What else did he say?" 

Cassandra gave Cullen a look that made him feel targeted.

Cousland continued, "I'm to understand that the wardens are experiencing a kind of prelude to civil war. It's been a long time coming, what with all the bad blood. Surana said the recent trouble started when Weisshaupt placed the Fereldan wardens under the authority of those in Orlais. At least that was the attempt." 

"I can't imagine Commander Tabris will appreciate this missive."

"Nor can I, but she has resigned from her position currently, as you've no doubt heard. As it stands, Commander Clarel of Orlais has summoned the Fereldan wardens to appear before her." 

Leliana laughed outright.

Fergus smiled. "I know. Surana in turn summoned _her_ to appear before _him_ , so, the whole thing has the makings of a delightful slap fight if you ask me." The smile flickered and vanished. "Although that along with the whole Celene incident is why our favorite spellbinder has been slandered as a maleficar and hunted throughout the land. I wager he is cooling his heels somewhere, wishing he'd remembered his manners." 

Leliana shook her head. "I warned him, but Maker, what a brat! I suppose now that Brosca will be wanted, too. She would never go to Clarel. No one tells her what to do. As for our Alistair, he hates conflict, but there's no turning back now, is there?"

Cousland spread his hands. "And there it is. That is the situation as I understand it. I'm sure you'll be hearing something from them soon, especially since they'll need a place to go."

The Herald leaned her arms on the back of a chair. "I should wonder what Master Surana would think of our _little cult_ now if we were the ones to offer them sanctuary." 

"I don't know if we would want to take sides in a Grey Warden conflict," Josephine pointed out. "Especially, as the teyrn reminds us, the matter with the empress... "

With a sigh that sapped his strength, Cullen said, "I know I'll regret this, but, what is this Celene incident you speak of." He couldn't imagine Surana paying insult to Enchanter Wynne, let alone the empress of Orlais. Not without extensive practice before a mirror. Andraste be good. There was this expanding notion that the Surana of the tower and the Surana of the wardens were two entirely different people.

Leliana explained, "In recent years, Surana has offered shelter to mages and templars who wished to leave the conflict, as well as the extension of mercy to the city elves of Orlais. His motives were commendable... but the execution was abysmal. His idea of playing the Game is to flip the board. There is no going back from the insult he has paid to the empress."

Cullen felt as though he had been called to speak on behalf of a stranger, yet, he couldn't mask the irritation in his voice. "I would hope that the threat of world destruction should come as slightly more important than Celene’s hurt feelings?”

New life danced in Leliana's little smirk. "My dear commander-- must you even pose that question?" 

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "I see that spite remains the national sport of Orlais." It was only now that she began to pour herself a glass of wine. "If we were to call on the heroes, as _Divine Justinia_ intended, then we would have to insist Ser Alistair or Lady Brosca stand as their senior warden. Surana is too unpredictable, and people rightly fear an apostate who flaunts his power. Alistair is by all accounts an honest man, and good-hearted. He also served as a templar knight before his life in the wardens, and that may counter the perceived influence of mages in the Inquisition."

Josephine considered this, saying, "A templar, interesting-- a solid reassurance, especially if we're to bring on Messere Hawke." She said this last bit almost shyly, as if she weren't supposed to reveal such a thing just yet. But how many times did Cullen and Varric have to tell everyone?

The Herald poured a glass now. It turned out to be for Cullen, who could no longer hold back his grimace. He waved the wineglass away as politely as he could.

The good humor of the teyrn was bubbling back up to the surface. Through a hearty chuckle, he said, "There's an interesting way to look at it. I'd heard rumors that Hawke was actually a mage-- all kinds of rumors, really-- but wouldn't that be something. I think you... " It was an earnest laugh now. "I think you ought to honor tradition and assign good Ser Alistair to Messere Hawke. You know. Follow him around all the time. Keep on the narrow path. Is anyone else picturing this?"

Cullen took the glass of wine after all. His face felt like death. Leliana watched him openly, and even the Herald seemed to relax a little, a little smirk playing on her lip.

"We've digressed," Cullen said. "We would welcome the aid of the other wardens, but at the same time, we cannot afford their issues to drag us through further conflict."

"A good point, as Ser Alistair might entail additional problems." Josephine smoothed her sleeve. "I know we have already discussed this, but he is still regarded by many as the rightful king." 

The Herald shrugged. "If he shows up with a good sword arm and a will to fight, then we will take them. I would rather choose the Heroes of Ferelden than the whims of nobles." 

"Well said, Inquisitor," Cousland replied, "but you know that people love to watch their heroes fall. Now. I'm weary of the wardens, and if you wish to talk about them further, I'll hand you kindly to Ser Nathaniel. He is skulking around here somewhere-- unless I wasn't supposed to say that. I believe he is spying on your warden." A shrug of his shoulders, then, as if to say, _what can you do_.

Cullen noticed a sudden unease from the Herald. It reminded him of inspections in the tower, whenever he stepped too closely to the hiding place of some contraband.

"The wardens of Orlais come for Blackwall also," the Herald said lightly. "He has proven himself a loyal ally to this mission." 

Cousland raised his hands. "He's only playing it cautious, I'm sure. A rogue anyway. You know how they love to stealth about. Now. Commander, you're next, I believe."

Aware of the Herald's suspicion, Cullen cleared his throat to answer the teyrn. "Ferelden has granted us a number of fine soldiers, but I must ask you for even more, and any arms and armor you might supply."

"I suppose you'll want rations too."

"My teyrn, you know that without victory, there is no hope for anyone." 

"I do know. I will see what I can do. After all, the Herald has concluded peace-- for now-- with the mages and templars, and she has closed the rifts that threaten our homesteads and farmlands. There are still demons running feral, but if you can help my men to hunt them, then that will certainly go a way toward freeing up forces. What else?"

"That is all we require for the time being."

"Oh, just that, is it." Cousland's eyes were kind. "Then, on to me. I have two requests. The first is that you find Connor Guerrin for us, if you do not harbor him already. Eamon is playing this one close, but the boy has disappeared. We think he's run away."

"I spoke to him on the docks," the Herald replied. "The arl's son-- the mage who was possessed as a child. We do not have him." 

"No one can truly blame him for what happened at Redcliffe all those years ago. He was only a child. I know it’s rare to cure an abomination, but I can’t see the point in tormenting him any further. If you can locate him safely, and offer him some sort of position, that might go a long way toward gaining the support of Eamon and Teagan, who is your most strident detractor."

Cullen would reserve his own advice until later. He had already asked much of the teyrn, and despite Cousland's level manner, he knew his words would not be well-received. Wearily he knew what the Herald would say before she said it.

"We will look for him, and when we find him, we will keep him safe." The Herald smiled. "And busy." 

Leliana set down her glass. "This should be easy for our scouts to discover. He could not have gone far."

The teyrn seemed pleased to hear this. "Good, thank you. Now I get another one, too, we're not done. Do something with Trevelyan. No no, not, _do something_ , Leliana. Maker. Besides your Inquisition, Trevelyan's held the Hinterlands together, him, Mother Giselle, and your shy qunari lad. And Sera of course, who could forget. Now, he is well-loved by all the smallfolk, healing the sick, making the lame walk, and so forth, but some of the nobles have made it their mission to find him. I've no personal qualms about an old man walking the land and healing who need it, it's commendable, really, but things are turning sour and I'm tired of hearing about it."

"We have already offered Messere Trevelyan a position in our organization," Josephine replied, "but he declines. He declines even to meet with us. Since he only wishes to heal, at risk to himself, could this matter not be simply put to rest among the court?"

"Believe me, I've already argued the same, and I tire of it. The fact remains that the queen has banished all apostates from Ferelden. So, recruit him and solve this problem for me. The last I've heard, Bann Ferrenly's little shit has gone about hunting him with dogs." 

This new development sparked a flash in the Herald's eye. "I'll have none of that," she said. "They say he's only a poor old man."

Cousland smirked. "Be that as it may, he's a slipperly old bastard, too. No one can catch him. Now, I agree with you entirely that this is exhausting bullshit, but I don't want it to become another complaint against the queen's leadership, and Maker's balls... I don't want young Ferrenly to fall off his horse or twist his ankle or hurt his pride in his idiotic pursuit of manhood or whatever this is all really about. The boy needs a little girlfriend. I want no escalation. So. Trevelyan. Rein him in." 

"I will send someone to speak to Trevelyan," the Herald replied, "but I can make no promises about a girlfriend." When Cousland grinned, she added, "Do you have anything more for us?"

"Not at present, but, I'm sure new items will arise. As they always do." Cousland raised his eyebrows. "The time of the vigil is almost upon us, so I know you will have your preparations, as I have mine." 

"It is good to speak to you so directly," the Herald told him. "I hope we can be friends." 

"As do I." Cousland smiled. As they rose, he shook Cullen's hand in a hearty grasp, and Cassandra's also. Josephine and the Herald were treated with a courtly bow, and Leliana punched his shoulder. 

"Just for that, Leli, I'm going to send you the smelliest rations," Cousland vowed, "and the ugliest plaidweave."

Cullen needed to clear his head. The taste of wine had only turned his mouth sour, and pain squeezed behind his eyes. The meeting with the teyrn had turned out to be a great success, yet he could not find a lasting satisfaction. He couldn't help but think of a new labyrinth of problems opening up before them.

...............

Cole explored the keep of Highever. He felt its sorrows leeching up from the stones, but there were wistful things, too. The echo of Bryce Cousland's laughter. A song from Antiva. Most people rushed by without seeing him, and he roamed at his own pace. The Herald had asked him to look for bad people. That was simple. They were everywhere.

The teyrn had been pleased to see them here, even as the sadness pressed in around him. It was the sorrow of the vigil to come, and all that it meant, but also the sharp pain he experienced whenever Leliana came to Highever. Why couldn't she choose to be happy?

Cole saw him in the upper garden, him and a nanny chasing a young girl around an ivy-covered pillar. The Pup giggled and dashed, refusing to be solemn for the event. They were trying to bundle her into her coat. Cousland finally captured her, and swung her up over his shoulder. She hugged his neck immediately. People here thought she was his bastard, and he loved her like his own. It kept her safe that way.

The Chargers guarded the keep, providing security along with Dorian, who asked Cole if he'd heard anything good on his rounds. Cole answered that he heard pain and sorrow. Wistful little hurtings. People who needed him. Dorian sighed, and said what he _needed_ was a sense of humor, one of these days. Yet Dorian was not unmoved by the ceremony yet to come. Hesitant to be seen. Marked as different, and aware of it. Helping patrol the halls in case the Venatori strike. 

His thoughts were on the little book he found in his room. Cousland would let him take it with him.

In the courtyard, Krem wondered if he should feel worse for killing the other Tevinters, but he felt no kinship to them. He felt nothing. They stood against everything he held right and true. He was thinking how soon they might take a drink at the Wolf's Head Tavern.

In the stables, Blackwall wondered why he felt so watched, but Cole had taken care of that. It wasn't the right time yet.

Cole followed a thread of sadness to the chantry, where the staging was underway for the vigil. Cole remembered how frightened the Divine had looked, but the rest was a blur even to him. Who had made him forget? What was he supposed to remember?

He thought a small child saw him as he crept into the cathedral. Her eyes tracked him with a gentle curiosity, though she was a happy girl, who did not need him. 

Each person was given a candle to hold. Cole did not know why, but it made them feel better. Soon they would all hold a little piece of light. Before the ceremony, the hush of the chantry was immense. The stained glass and hanging banners were among the most beautiful things that some of the people here would ever see. It was meant to remind them of the Maker's glory. Sunbeams slanted through the glass panels and little bits of color shone on the upturned faces.

In the upper loft, Cole found her, the Herald. Lasamahl the last one. She was gripping the rail as she endured the whispers of the queen, who stood garbed in a fur-lined hood and mantle, head bowed closely. 

“You come into power under a cloud of suspicion," Anora was telling her, "and it is brave for you to come here. They whisper that it was you who killed the Divine."

The Herald had not expected so open a confrontation. Cole felt her blanch with shock. She would need him.

The queen continued, "I know what it is like to have so many judging eyes upon you. It may seem the better path to seek the alliance of proven heroes, but I must warn you. They have already chosen their path. They have already made their decisions.”

Cole thought of an animal backed slowly into a corner, but there was no need. There was no corner. Many paths instead. Many options. Cole sensed that she did not understand this yet; her fear flooded him with a sour yellow feeling. With a smile like bared teeth, Lasamahl replied, “This is hardly the time for me to be choosy.” 

Anora refused to react. Cole felt her boundless patience, her heart of stone. “I know that it seems dire. But this is all the more reason to show caution and restraint. There are powerful forces that may ride to your aid: the legions of Orlesian chevaliers and the might of Ferelden. But if you choose poorly, these same forces will turn against you. The chantry thirsts for blood since Kirkwall exploded all those years ago.” 

“And Ferelden?" asked the Inquisitor in a feathery whisper of fearful aggression. "Will it turn against me, despite the favors I have shown its people and its queen?” 

“If it becomes the will of the people, of the banns, of the arls, of the teyrns. If that is their united wish, then I will have to act. The queen is servant to her realm.”

“I see.”

Anora looked out across the chantry below, the gathering people, the robes and vestments of ceremony. One by one, candles touched each other and shared their light. “It would be nothing personal between us. In Orlais they call it the Game. I’ve always hated it, but my sentiments cannot affect reality." Her long-lashed eyes lifted to the Herald. "Please consider my words. It is out of concern that I share my thoughts with you.” 

“You don’t wish to see Alistair succeed.”

“I do not feel he is a threat. That time has passed, and the intervening years have proven that he is more fitting as a hero than a king. Even so, there are bickering voices who complain he would be the better choice of ruler. The rightful lord. So far I can afford to ignore these whispers, but there may come a time when they grow too loud for me to laugh away. Do you understand what I am saying?”

The Inquisitor took a breath. “You are afraid. That is what your words tell me.”

Anora smiled. “You are much too bold, Lavellan. You cannot speak to me as such, but I will choose to ignore this for now. Your organization has helped me, after all.”

The Inquisitor fretted, though she tried to mask it. Cole felt her effort not to sound like a child. “You think I cannot play this game.”

“I hope that you shall learn. It is unforgiving. I imagine you will face additional difficulty on account of your being an elf. It is no matter to me. I cannot speak for the Maker’s design. I can only pray that His chosen will be better served by Sister Leliana. She will teach you these things.” 

“I thank you for your words. At least you tell them to my face."

“And I thank you again for all that you have done. I hope you will consider my advice. May the Maker love you and keep you.”

The queen receded with her guardsmen to take her place below. The Herald looked on, blinking back tears. Her knuckles reddened in the grip on the railing.

"What am I doing, Cole?" she whispered.

"You are helping," he replied. "You want to help."

"There was another warden here," she said, wiping her eyes. Yet a tear spilled and ran down her red-marked face. "He was looking for Blackwall."

"He was, but he forgot."

"Did you kill him?"

"No. Curious, confused. Not wishing to do harm. Something greater on his mind, and smaller problems fall away."

"And what is that?"

"I do not know. He did not need me, not for that." 

Nathaniel had always felt a sadness here in the place where his family destroyed itself. But Fergus was a friend now, against the odds, a friend to him and to Delilah. He'd been sorry too.

"I will have to do something with Blackwall," the Herald said at length. "But I don't know what."

"He doesn't know either. Not knowing. Not ready. He can't tell you yet, even when it hurts him."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Yes."

She took in a breath. "Dangerous to me? To the Inquisition?"

"No."

"He wants to help."

"Yes."

"But he's lying somehow."

"Sometimes a lie can come true," Cole told her.

Lasamahl lowered her eyes and looked away. She wedged her wrist against her eye, sniffed, and said, "What about the others. Could you find the wardens? Could you find where they are?" 

"They have to need me."

"Do they need you?"

"I don't know."

"Could you find Hawke?"

"I don't know."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes. No."

"How can he be alive, and also not, Cole?" Her eyes returned to him, and her expression softened. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk like that. You must be tired. I-- I've asked so much from you."

"It drains me. So many thoughts. So much pain. Sometimes the things you ask to know will hurt them. I want to help, but what happens if it hurts them also?"

"I think I understand," she told him. "You should-- you should rest, Cole."

"You still need me."

"Then. Then sit with me here."

The Herald knelt in the loft, and Cole waited with her. He sensed the ugly knot of thoughts tangling up inside her head. He hoped the vigil would help. It seemed strange to him, but he thought he might understand. The people made a time to come together and let go of their sadness. Only three people in the crowd had known Justinia personally-- but she meant more than herself. There was fear now for what her death would mean. Chaos and uncertainty. 

Cole heard someone thinking, _if the Maker cannot or will not save his Divine, then what of the rest of us?_

They had to believe there was a greater plan. A grand design. They huddled together in the chantry, their candles like a sea of little lights. Soldiers in handsome uniforms stood by, somber and dignified. Out of the silence a woman began to sing. Leliana. Her voice rich and stirring. Others joined her in her song, a chantry sister from Gwaren, a young nobleman from West Hill, and even Cullen, whose shy strong tenor interwove their hymn.

He would wait for her, after the singing, after the chant, and the impassioned speech of Teyrn Fergus Cousland. Cullen wanted to give her comfort. But she did not go to him. Lasamahl stayed the vigil through the night, knelt on shaky legs, as the banks of chantry candles burnt down slowly around her.


	4. Vigil, iv

The return journey went without event. No acts of vengeance from the Venatori. No Red Templars clanking out of the forest. Dorian was almost disappointed. Why, not even so much as a bear. He supposed Cassandra wasn't in the mood. The last time he had looked in on her, she had been glowering inside the carriage with a sleeping Herald spread out across her. 

Dorian enjoyed a good ride through open air. Green wet countryside spread out all around them, rolling hills broken by stone outcroppings. A string of Inquisition troops rode in the fore, and some falling back of the carriage, with Iron Bull and the Chargers marching some distance behind. From time to time, their laughter sounded, some joke or impersonation acted out.

The horse provided to him was no imperial lineage, that was for sure, but it was an adequate gelding who seemed too stupid to spook from magic. Its chief concern appeared to be the strands of honeysuckle that grew along the rotting fenceposts of abandoned farmland. Every now and then, the plodding animal would wander off the road to snuffle about, but then, they weren't in any great hurry. 

A black fennec seemed to trail them at a distance. Curious little things. Dorian wondered if you could tame one if you caught it. He felt that if he was going to be the evil Tevinter in the castle, he ought to have some kind of silky pet to stroke. It really added a certain something to one's villainous monologue.

Dorian let out a pleasant sigh. "You know," he began, to everyone and to no one, "I just wanted to say that I had a marvelous time."

"It was a funeral," Blackwall groaned.

"No, it was a _vigil_ , there's a difference. And anyhow, that part was exceedingly lovely and thoughtful. Leliana and Cullen have such charming voices."

"Thank you, Dorian," Leliana murmured. She had been staring off into the meadow for some time, but now her attention returned, a soft smile of mischief beginning to form. "You were spoken highly of by the nobles. Josephine says there were some inquiries about you... " 

He gave a brilliant smile as though to say, _of course_. "Apparently I'm already spoken for," he replied. "I've been hearing all about my torrid romance with the queen. Saving her life. A bond forged in danger." 

Cullen sighed. He sat in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. Potatoes that had been through a lot in life. He somehow managed to look both pale and flushed at the same time, some trick of the lighter southern complexions.

"Come now, commander, surely you've enjoyed at least some of your time away from Skyhold." Dorian set in on him brightly.

He didn't deny it, but his voice came hoarse, tired. "I dread our return. When the cat's away, the mice will play... "

"What's the worst that could happen," Blackwall said. "We left Skyhold full of whiny mages to squabble among themselves. Worse than children sometimes."

Dorian preferred optimism. "Perhaps we'll find them all tucked into bed, and Varric has read them a story." Although come to think of it, Varric's best known story had something to do with mages blowing up the chantry, so, perhaps not that one. 

"Madame de Fer and Grand Enchanter Fiona have been entrusted to keep order," Leliana chimed in. "It's only been a few days. I've not received word of anything pressing."

"What about anything juicy? If I were you, I would have my minions send me a raven anytime Vivienne delivered a savage put-down. I'd want to be informed immediately."

Leliana laughed, what a pleasant sound. He'd always thought that somewhere beneath that murdery exterior, she could be quite fun. "How did you find Luthier, by the way?" 

"Luthier? Oh, oh no." Dorian did not recognize the name, but once he saw her smile, he understood. "My _elven valet_. He was one of yours then." They all had occupation names: Tanner, Fisher, Charter, and so forth...

"Not one of mine, but a friend on a mission of his own." 

"You know I suspected he had to be a rogue or assassin of some kind."

Leliana gave a slow blink of her eyelashes. "Truly, and you said nothing to me?" It seemed to please her to taunt him a little. A flash of fun that did her some good.

"I know, it's so silly," he admitted, "but I let him give me a neck rub anyway. I halfway thought he might snap my neck, but it was just too good. Let him try, I say. Go out on a high point. I feel so loose and limber now."

Cullen was giving him a shit look at this point, but there was a man in dire need of a neck rub. He would definitely offer but he suspected Cullen might be one of those squeamish chantry boy types. 

"I'll have you know," Dorian continued, "I didn't take advantage of the fellow. I know how that would look, a foreigner here for your religious ceremony, foisting himself on the poor elven serving man... though I wouldn't actually have foisted anything, he was rather forward, if I might kiss and tell..." 

Leliana grinned. "Actually, the valet role was his idea." 

Blackwall began to laugh at him. A rich sound. "A crying shame, that! My heart bleeds for you, Dorian." 

"I believe I've left something at the castle," Dorian deadpanned and he let his horse fall behind. Aha, at last Cullen cracked a slight smile, though he wouldn't give you the satisfaction of seeing it. He turned his head to look away off into the countryside or the moors or whatnot, as the brooding romantic hero is said to often do.

After a moment, Cullen said, softly, "You know, Dorian, I've just thought of something. It would be perfect."

"I can't wait to hear this." He was still thinking about elven valets.

Cullen turned and met Leliana's eyes. "Trevelyan," he said to her, raising his brow. When she nodded, he continued, "We were asked by the teyrn to make contact with Trevelyan, the healer out in the hinterlands." 

"Ahhh, yes. The one no one has ever seen."

"Plenty of people have seen him," Leliana replied, "they only pretend they haven't. He has done good works for the villagers, so they protect him."

Cullen walked his horse slowly enough that their mounts came shoulder to shoulder. "You're an outsider in the south," he said. "Not a part of any circle or involved with any of the politics. He might find you a more palatable representative of our cause."

"Palatable, that's me." Dorian smiled. "I know just the angle. Did you know the Trevelyans are an offshoot of my house? Why, I bet we're cousins! It will be like having two of me, I just know it."

"In that case," Cullen said flatly, "we have gotten by so far with only Fiona." 

"Oh, come now. A spirit healer! Those are so rare. I'm sure I can bend his arm into coming to Skyhold. You can't make the Grand Enchanter come running every time someone gets an ouchy." 

"You'll want to take Adaar and Sera with you," Leliana said. "They appear to be on friendly terms with him." 

Blackwall shook his head. "Sera won't do it, I could tell you that much," he said. "I've already asked. She says he only wants to mind his own business and help with the villagers."

"He has little choice in the matter now," Cullen replied. "That's why the teyrn came to us. He warned us that some of the nobles are looking for the old man, and it's not good."

"Officially," Leliana said, "the queen banished all apostates from the land. If Trevelyan comes to the Inquisition, we might make an arrangement that allows his work to continue."

Dorian considered. He supposed they were all going about this the wrong way, and he knew he could make inroads. Though he could hardly blame the poor old gentleman for wanting to enjoy his freedom, spirit healers were a truly special thing. The difference between life and death. Victory and failure. The workers of miracles.

"I'll do it," Dorian said. "If only to see a spirit healer in action as partnered with a warrior. Blow after blow, healing all the while. Why, set up this Trevelyan fellow with Cassandra and just imagine the force of destruction she might become. No Corypheus, no bears, nothing." 

Cullen smiled a faint smile, somewhat pained. "The Inquisitor will have to approve, of course."

"Be sure to tell her about the Trevelyans and House Pavus," Dorian insisted. "That will surely sweeten the deal... "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of our introduction. Thank you for coming along! As you might have seen, I'll be doing my own thing with canon, and if something doesn't seem to match up how you remembered, there might be a reason for that. I think you'll get the most out of this story if you reread it some chapters in, but for now, I hope you have a good time. We'll be seeing some familiar faces very soon...


	5. The Judgment of Varric, i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor returns to Skyhold with a special announcement. Cassandra confronts Varric on whether or not he plans to leave the Inquisition and return to Kirkwall. Though much has changed since his interrogation and capture, Varric insists on a formal judgment to be free of his charges. Lavellan's unexpected response reminds him of that old saying: be careful what you wish for.

The raven crested the chill wind above the mountain chain, where the setting sun turned the snow to blood. Through the red blur of scenery the trees stood with heavy branches full of winter, though the season moved on beyond these timeless hills. Far below, the glory of a dead culture gave itself up in the form of dilapidated statues: a figure of raised hands, a wolf in repose, and a perching raven, who had been then as now the bringer of messages.

Deer tracks showed through the forest where it thinned. A rare and magnificent elk listed the hills like a prince cast from his land. His crowned head lifted to the sky as the raven passed on his journey. In time a fortress came into view. _The fortress_. Its walls shone with broad stripes of red and orange as the western sun slid down to die.

The raven spiraled to the keep below. He circled the ramparts hung with the eye-and-dagger banners. He beat his wings above the crumbling towers with the roofs opened to the sky. Soldiers walked their rounds as a guard-captain inspected a line of his men. Servants carried torches and as the raven flew wide, he watched the fires being lit around the walls. His head turned and a dark eye fell to the people gathering below.

He saw humans and elves kitted in armor, and most wore the same sort of uniform, drilling and walking together, standing together, or sitting and talking together. 

He saw templars and mages wandering freely.

He saw and heard two qunari shouting in the yard: one laughing, his voice thick with good humor, and the other proud, wounded, petulant. 

A tranquil stood in the corner of a tower until someone came to lead her away by the hands.

Someone was standing on the ledge of a great balcony, a person of importance, an elf. When the raven glided over a courtyard of darkening green, a flash caught his attention. It was a copper pot in the arms of an elven child, who struggled it into a better hold. In her other hand she gripped a ladle. The pot sounded a thwanging tone throughout the fortress. Little Ana shouted as she ran through the mud of the hold's upper yard, and her words came, "Time for chant! Time for chant!" in an accent that still sounded Antivan. She beat the copper pot's bottom like a sergeant calling muster from the barracks.

The raven caught an updraft from the far wall as the people began to rumble and gather. With a flutter of wing he landed on the rail of the balcony where he had first seen Lavellan. 

They were calling her the Herald of Andraste. The White Halla. Some Orlesian nonsense to be sure. She had a ghastly pale skin that the songs made porcelain; she tended toward ruddy, even without the discomfort and nerves that showed plain. A hard life in the wild, in whatever she had gotten up to. Pale, near-white, with a tangle of white hair that fell to her shoulders. A weird angular face dominated by huge dark eyes, and a band of red ink without the usual ornamentation. Her lips were large but cracked. She was chewing at them, setting sharp little teeth upon them, before she left off with a whisper. He was watching a rehearsal. 

She had a strange appearance, yet still attractive, in a way that grew the longer that you looked. The humans were always wanting something unique to stand as a figurehead. She seemed half in a trance, not knowing that he watched her. In a harsh whisper, she practiced her words to herself, leaving off from them midsentence. She paced her room to pick up a sword with two hands, one at the blade and one at the crossguard. The blade of Ameridan, the last inquisitor. Her elbows dipped with the effort to lift it.

The Herald set it down with a grimace. When she pulled up her shirt, her bruises showed with a blaze of magnificence. They turned her sallow skin to green and red and purple, even black, where some impact had thudded her. It was something she wanted to hide, but not from him; he was only a bird after all. Their eyes met as she was holding the fabric away, her fingers pushing against the bindings that held her breasts. She made a painful smile.

" _Aneth ara_ ," she said, and he croaked back to her. A moment's delight brought her out of her pain. Ah! There it was. He could see how she might be charming. A cult leader had to be. She gazed at him fondly for a moment, and then she showed an interest in the message on his leg. It wasn't meant for her. He fell away from her ledge. 

The raven followed the crowd to the upper yard, where all races and kinds came together at the base of a stone staircase. Leliana looked sleek in a hooded robe hung with chainmail, and she stood with two women, one dark and vivacious, richly attired in golden silk, and the other, pale, sharply beautiful, with decades of martial experience that in her straight back and broad shoulders.

Cullen Rutherford came slogging through a parting crowd, as striking and handsome man as ever with a kind of sorrowful grandeur. He looked weary yet heroic in his armor, the plates mantled with a great ruff of red fur, and this, the raven supposed, was the origin of that other Orlesian nonsense. _The Golden Lion._

The Golden Lion put out his gloves gently to the elven child's head, ruffling her hair, saying something close to, "That's enough, thank-you, Ana." There was a scar on his lip that moved with his words. The child beamed at him, crying out, "Comandante!" and she stood up her ladle like a drummer's drumstick. Did he still suffer from those headaches?

Leliana had seen the bird now, and she raised a gauntlet to call his flight. A murmur of appreciation went through the crowd now. The raven chose to humor her this time, and for effect, he flew low over heads and swept up to land on her hand with a decided flourish. Had to make her look good.

Someone watched him in the crowd, someone who knew his game. There was a humorous twist to the handsome Tevinter face, and the raven knew that that one would be fun. You couldn't have a mustache like that otherwise. You just weren’t allowed to.

Leliana took his message and stifled a laugh as soon as she deciphered it. The raven pecked a tendril of red hair from her hood and she kissed his feathers. Seeing this, the woman in gold smiled a kindly smile, and the raven sensed she had a tender heart. Cullen came up the stone steps to take his place beside the ladies, and he went like an old man who meant to collapse at the end of a toilsome journey. The one woman looked like she possessed the strength to catch him if he did. The famed Cassandra Pentaghast.

A fetching accent floated up from the crowd. The raven looked. “Tis sommat, don't you think, all of us to come together in the faith?” a young man asked a qunari standing near him, a good-looking and slender qunari male, who responded with the sheepish discomfort of an atheist. He was one of the two qunari present. The other, a great battlescarred brute, stood tall with a troop of rough-looking men, but the quirk of his mouth suggested friendly humor.

There was a dwarf whose description matched the merchant rogue Varric Tethras. He had a broad smile as he leaned in (and up) to tell something charming to someone else. He seemed just the sort who always had something charming at the ready. His companion, the famed Madame de Fer, looked entirely unimpressed. She was going to be so irritated if she learned that he was here. He ought to drop a shit on her gown.

Bit by bit, a group of tranquil followed their handler across the green. Three of them held hands in a link as they were herded into the gathering. “What are you doing?” one of the mages seemed to be saying, from the concerned and embarrassed movement of her lips. The tranquil handler stood resolute, unashamed, ready to include her charges.

Blackwall stood toward the back, looking good for a dead man. The shuffle of the mortal coil seemed to have done little to strain his morale. _Good for him._ You couldn’t let something like that get in your way. He was accompanied by a springy-looking elf with jagged blonde bangs. To tell by the look on her face, she had something rude and wonderful to say about someone (Vivienne) or something (all of this), and it was a pity the raven perched too far away to hear it. There had to be a story there-- about all of that, frankly.

The interest of the crowd began to focus as the Herald of Andraste emerged from the keep. A venerable chantry-mother glided serenely at her heels. The White Halla had come to speak. It had better be the best speech he had ever heard in his life.

“My friends,” she called out, to a murmury rumble of response from the crowd. The larger of the qunari responded with a soft roar of enthusiasm, one with a fun razz of an edge that broke the Herald's composure. Her smile flashed genuine and silly. She seemed almost as though she might forget her words a moment, and then, with a deep breath, she began anew.

“My friends, look around you. Look at what you are making. You are cleaning out the wreckage here. You are clearing the roads. This place has lain silent for centuries, and now it comes alive to the sound of laughter and devotion. We will win because we have heart. I do not know what gruesome lair the Elder One keeps, but I cannot imagine that if you looked there, you would find such courage and compassion as we have here. Such brothers in arms."

Cullen stared at her openly as she spoke. He was in love with her. It had to be so. The soft adoration of gleaming brown eyes. The Orlesians sang of a White Halla carried out of the snow, held against the protective mane of a lion. 

“I won’t go long-winded," the Herald continued with a little laugh. She seemed a wild elf with a merry heart, who was sick with nerves to stand on ceremony. "I won’t make you stand too long in the cold. I wanted to say, thank you, and I wanted you to know your hard work is known. It is appreciated. You have worked your fingers to the bone since Haven. Tonight, I want you to rest, and be merry. Remember that which is good in this world. The festival is coming soon, but perhaps we might have a taste of it yet. Teyrn Fergus Cousland has sent us gifts from Highever, in thanks for your works in Ferelden." 

By turns the murmur of the crowd went to a rumble, then a low roar, with a whistle cutting through. The larger of the qunari grabbed his lieutenant by the shoulders and shook him with excitement. The raven cocked his head to look at Leliana, only to find that she was already eyeing him for his reaction. A throaty caw would have to suffice.

The Herald met Cullen's eye, as if shy, as if checking, before she faced her people once more. "Now let us pray. Mother Giselle will lead us in the chant."

The voices of the gathering joined in song. The young qunari withdrew. The other smiled with good sportsmanship and mouthed along. The herd of tranquil stared, impassive. Yet one sang softly and tunelessly, his blank eyes fixed to some point no one else could see.

Toward the back, several mages-- some of the Marcher mages if he had to guess-- shared a bitter look between them. Their scars and hard faces had a song all their own. Some with scratches on hands and wrists that robed sleeves would never fully hide. It was time for them to go, shut out forever from what was happening here. The raven knew the sentiment among them, and he knew that song, had sung it himself in a different keep.

But there it was, the mingling of voices, a low thrum that tied them all together, no matter how improbable the strange alliance seemed. There was a power in this. The raven became aware now of eyes that watched him, cold clear eyes that cut right through him: there was a young man he had not noticed at first, a young man crouching on the ramparts. He experienced a strange sensation for just a moment, and then it was all lost to mind.

The raven flew to Leliana’s tower. It was time to lay down the cards.


	6. The Judgment of Varric, ii

After the chant, Cassandra remained a time in the chapel with the Herald. A few others stayed behind for quiet reflection. Cassandra normally enjoyed these moments with her, only breathing, taking in the sounds beyond the walls of the chapel, considering and discarding them in turn. Only breathing was important, the slow pull, the gentle release. She would wait for the peace of the Maker to wash over her.

She knew she would not feel that peace this evening. She found herself holding her breath, and her lungs burned with stale air. Her muscles felt tight, and she tensed as if to take a blow from some opponent.

Lasamahl breathed in a shallow rhythm nearby. She looked weary from the travel; she was no horse rider, and though Blackwall had saddled a gentle beast for her, she had not fared well. Earlier that morning, Cullen had dismounted to take the reins and lead her mount across a narrow lip of road where heavy water had eroded; though he took great care, both horse and rider seemed equally unenthused. 

Cassandra wondered if Lasamahl had been embarrassed to accept another's help in such a way, even from Cullen. Cassandra would have felt the same when she was younger. Frustrated, perhaps. The dalish were said to be skilled riders, but the difference between horse and halla was a wide one. She wondered, not for the first time, if Lasamahl despaired at so many things that were different from what she knew. And to be judged on them. 

She became aware that Lasamahl looked at her now. She wondered what the Herald was thinking.

Softly, Lasamahl said, "I wished to thank you."

"Whatever for?"

"For giving me a chance. Not many would."

Cassandra held her eyes. Lasamahl smiled. 

"It is my sworn duty to serve the truth wherever it lies," Cassandra told her. "Inquisitor, you should rest."

They walked back together through the garden. There was a chill that had crept up from the stones of the chapel where she had knelt, and the evening air had grown cold. There was a cleanness to cold, Cassandra thought, and the air smelled crisp to her. The scent of the torches was pleasant. They cast welcoming light through the courtyard, and small gatherings clustered around trees, on benches, and in corners. It would be good to take a glass of wine there, she thought, bundled into some light talk with one's beloved. 

One of the mages produced a green and blue glimmer of illumination, his hands held out before him. Another shaped the wispy forms of animals from the light he had created, and the elven child Ana watched in awe. The colors played across her delighted face, a pretty brown girl with hair of thick gold.

So far a measure of peace held throughout the keep. Cullen had insisted there would be incidents, that there would be demons, but so far the worst elements had never reached more than a simmering resentment. There would always be complaints. Every subordinate complains about his superior, just as every child complains about his parents. It was the way of things.

She knew she ought to speak to Varric in the morning. She wanted a bath. As soon as they returned, there had been a clamor for their attention. She felt her temper was short from a trying journey. She hadn't been able to return to sleep in camp when they stopped; Cullen's nightmares awoke her with his suffering gasps. She was sorry for him, truly. It had been kind of Dorian to keep him company.

She had rehearsed her conversation with Varric in her head and she knew she was working herself up. She could admit that to herself. She had burnt herself in arguments in the past. Putting words in the other person's mouth. Reacting with rage to something that had not even happened yet. She remembered the counsel of her old master, Byron, who reminded her not to create false arguments in her head. 

But she should just get this over with.

She checked in on Cullen first, only to find him slumped at his desk. Smothering a rising sense of alarm, she went for a closer look. Well, no nosebleed, he was breathing normally, his face slack. He had probably been looking over a supply list before he nodded off. She looked from the desk to the loft, and decided it best not to wake him. She hated the idea of him sleeping up there. What if he had an episode and fell, the great stubborn fool? Try as she might, she couldn't convince him to keep his office and sleeping quarters separate. 'They might need me,' he'd told her.

Well. It was a problem that would resolve itself in due time. With any luck he would be enjoying the bed and fireplace in the inquisitor's quarters. Cassandra wished them the joy of each other.

Pinching all but one of the candle wicks, she went to leave. She noticed the gleam of glowing animal eyes just then. A little black mouse. It stood on its hind legs, nose twitching as it looked up at her. Ugh! Disgusting. She started toward it only one step, and it dashed away into a hole by the bookshelf.  
She would have to ask Ana to bring one of the kitchen cats in here. Although she couldn't help but envision Cullen chasing a mouse around his office. It would annoy him when he discovered it. His resolve impressed her in the face of enormous difficulty, yet it seemed the littlest things could make him crazy. Perhaps the small things could slip past his defenses.

The ramparts offered an impressive view of the surrounding mountains. Blue slopes of snow gleamed in the moonlight. As she crossed the castle walls, she told herself to put this off until tomorrow. She wanted a conversation, not a confrontation, and her irritation pulled her toward the latter. She knew by now when to disengage, to take a break, but Varric made things more difficult than they had to be. She had already put several days between them on this matter, and instead of reflection or perspective, she was left with unease. 

When she reached his room at the end of a hall, she found the door ajar. Varric often left an open door for visitors, no matter who might come to find him. He rubbed elbows with the inner circle as well as the wider Inquisition: whoever wanted to share a drink and a story, whoever needed a friend. 

Cassandra had never been one to mix freely with others. It was not in her nature: her strength expressed itself in her keen mind, her steadfast resolve, and her decades of training with the sword. Yet she could still appreciate that quality of his, to put others at ease, to make them laugh, to invite their trust. He would just look you in the eye, shrug, and chuckle, _well this is some bullshit, isn't it?_ with a crooked grin on his face. 

She knew she would have to steel herself for this encounter. She could neither allow him to change the subject nor undermine her concerns. 

Cassandra stood just outside the door, and she rapped her knuckles against the frame. "It's me," she said.

"I know," she heard him say. "I'd know that sigh anywhere. You heave that thing like an anchor."

"Do you have a moment."

"That didn't sound like a question, so, yeah, you bet." 

She could see his smirking face through the half-opened door. She went in, and the chill of the corridor melted away. His chamber was a smaller one, but it had a window and a fireplace, which blazed merrily. The warm glow showed a relaxing place that looked mostly rug and writing desk. He had pushed two tables together to make a corner, and one of the carpenters had sawn the legs to put them at a comfortable dwarven height. 

Papers covered the surface of the desk, and if they were ordered somehow, it was in a way only known by Varric. Three books of leather binding made a stack on one edge, and some writing accoutrements sat on a thick scrap of blotting. 

He had a board of cheese and a crusty roll of black seeded bread. It looked like he had been dipping it in a clay mug of broth. A bottle of wine completed the arrangement. It all looked very cozy. He looked comfortable, dressed down for the end of the day, just out of his bath. She supposed she could see what some women found attractive in him. 

She had taken two steps inside when Varric tutted at her. He gestured with the hand that held his writing quill. She followed the motion and frowned, saying, "I'm leaving my boots on."

"Then you can stand outside," Varric told her. "You know my rule." His own big bare feet flexed their toes beneath the table.

Two steps. Two steps inside, and she was already irritated. It must have shown on her face, because he added, "Don't worry, I know your voice will carry."   
A smile quirked his mouth, and she refused to look at him, not until she could keep her features calm. She needed to begin from a neutral place. So with a deliberate air she turned and walked out of his room.

The desk chair creaked as he leaned his weight. Looking out of the room, most likely. "Hey," he said, gently. "I do want to talk to you, y'know. How was Highever?"

She had stepped out to unlace her boots. Perhaps his preference had some wisdom in it; though she had scraped her boots with a stiff brush, drying mud remained. She had barely had a moment to herself since their return to the castle. "The teyrn was gracious," she answered. "I believe we may have found a steadfast ally in him."

"There's a guy who has it figured out. If you've got to have power, you get yourself just enough of it." Then a timbre of humor crept into his voice. "So, I heard Dorian saved the queen of Ferelden. What a hero."

"The account has little in common with the rumor flying around. I've heard such nonsense already-- it's only been a few days." Pulled free of her boots, she walked into the room to find him grinning. 

"Come on," he said. "You know you can't let the truth get in the way of a good story. I heard Anora swooned in the arms of a renegade Tevinter! He betrayed his people to save her!" 

" _Ugh!_ "

"I know, right?" His voice rumbled with a deep chuckle, a quaking sound he could no longer contain. "I wasn't going to tease Dorian, but he loves the rumor, apparently, so... game on." 

_Don't smile. Remember why you are here._

"Varric, I am here to discuss your situation." 

He wanted to be happy, so he wouldn't let her straighten him up too soon. He set the quill into the inkwell, wiping inkstained fingers across the blotting rag. "All right, sure. Have a seat. You want a glass of wine?" 

"You can't leave the Inquisition," she said.

Bottle in hand, he looked at her with raised eyebrows. "Is that like an 'oh Varric, you _can't_ leave the Inquisition!'" His voice sounded nothing like her, she thought. She didn't speak in that kind of accent. With a touch more seriousness, he said, "Or is it... 'you can't leave the Inquisition.'" 

"You have responsibilities here as well as Kirkwall," she continued. "I understand the troubles now facing your city, but you remain our best source of information on Corypheus and red lyrium." 

Varric went to the fireplace, where an extra wineglass sat among a few personal effects upon the mantle. "Never mind that the sky is about to tear open over Sundermount, and the Prince of Starkhaven is building a bunch of trebuchets for... no reason? You know. Just to have 'em."

"We will do what we can for Kirkwall." 

He looked back at her, and the gold ring pendant gleamed in the firelight against his chest. "And what _can_ we do, exactly? We've got no money, no allies." 

"That is not entirely true, Varric." He always leapt to hyperbole. 

"All right. Some money. Some allies." He shrugged. "But you know, not many nobles will want to bet on a dalish elf, no matter how much of a hero she turns out to be. I saw it with my friend Merrill." 

"The Maker has chosen someone unexpected, that is true, but His ways are as mysterious as they are wise. People will see this. We will help Kirkwall in her time of need-- we will find a way." 

Varric smirked at her, unconvinced, and she could see at last his good humor had begun to fade away. She was sorry for that, truly. He walked barefoot back over the rug and began to pour her a glass of wine, standing nearby on her side of the desk. "I don't think Hawke will let anything happen," he said, "if it comes to that. Whatever _that_ is." Up close like this, he smelled of some good masculine scent. Bay rum. She supposed she still reeked of horse. She refused to let this make her feel self-conscious.

"Perhaps you could write to the prince."

"You think I haven't already tried?" Varric went back around the desk to return to his chair. It looked plush like Josephine's. He was a man who enjoyed small comforts. "I got no answer, and I don't even know if he read my letter. Nobody can talk to him. Carver couldn't even get an audience, and the guards had to throw him out. It's so damn weird." 

"You are not the only one to believe him to behave so wildly out of character." Cassandra was not yet ready for this conversation, and Leliana had not yet finished her investigation. "That is all I say for certain at this time. We are looking into this matter." 

She thought of King Markus of her country, the rumors of strange happenings that trickled out of the Nevarran court. It could all be related. It almost had to be. Blackmail? Blood magic? 

Varric seemed to believe as much; he only shrugged. His eyes slipped away momentarily, watching the fire play a shadow upon the wall. 

Cassandra did not yet touch the glass of wine. She should have declined the offer outright, but she had lost the moment, and now she found she wanted a taste of it. "Varric," she said, "do you truly not know where Hawke has gone?"

"How many times do I have to deny it?"

"When you answer questions with questions, it makes me suspicious."  
"I don't know where he is."

"What is the last thing he said to you?"

"'Feed my cats.'"

Cassandra felt her brow pinch. "Varric."

"What, he loves those cats. I'm not really a cat guy, but they grow on you." Varric gave his best nonjudgmental shrug. She could sense he was searching himself for whether or not he could revive some humor. The thought of it annoying her might sweeten the idea. "Look, he said he had to leave. He had to make things right. The war is over now, so maybe he'll get to go home."

"You've heard nothing from him since."

"Nothing at all." 

"None of you have had any word?" 

"Not Carver, not Merrill, not Aveline. We all thought he would show for the wedding-- war or no war. He loves his brother." 

Cassandra twinged with a memory of Anthony. If he'd lived, if he'd grown, if he'd loved and wed. It was now that she took her glass. "I regret to ask you again," she began, carefully. "The body at the docks... "

"Not him." Varric studied her, then. "I told you. But maybe you want to tell me what your people know, now that I'm no longer your prisoner."  
"You must know that the original investigation began shortly after the Kirkwall rebellion. You weren't the first."

"Sure. One day we were working with Cullen to set up relief, and the next, he was gone. We tried to find out where you people dragged him off to. When he turned up a month later, he wouldn't say where he'd been or what had happened, but we knew." 

"Cullen was a templar, and the Seekers watch templars as well as mages. You know this." She frowned. "I was not part of the investigation at that time. But Cullen was cleared. We accepted his version of events, as they matched generally with the others that we collected."

A coldness passed across Varric's features, and she twinged with guilt to see it so. She anticipated the flush of anger that always came on such occasions, as childish as it might be-- but she felt only a frustrated sense of regret. They _had_ to interrogate Cullen. There was no way that could not have occurred. It was their duty. Cullen himself understood that-- he had to.

"So, this body that washed up." Varric took a gulp from his wine.

"It was shortly after the incident. Perhaps two weeks. A body came up with the fishing nets, and the description matched Hawke. Height, hair, build, beard. Scars on his hands and his arms." 

"Uh huh, and who did you hear this from?"

"The fishermen. An older gentleman insisted it was him."

"Uh huh. But none of you saw it. And none of _us_ saw it." 

"No. The original Seekers tried their best to retrieve it." There had even been talk of attempting to create a retroactive phylactery, a rare procedure, but the reports mentioned no one knew where to find fresh enough blood for it. 

"So, let me tell you something. You don't see the body, they're not dead." Varric smirked. "That's a little _Hard in Hightown_ wisdom for ya." 

Carefully, she asked, "You do not believe he could have done it, then? If he truly believed it would save the lives of his brother and his friends?"

"If you're asking me if I think... in some purely, uh, hypothetical situation, he would sacrifice himself to save us... yeah. Not a doubt in my mind. But he didn't drown himself." A long pause. "Anyway, after it happened, Fenris went with him everywhere. No way he left Garrett alone."

Cassandra said nothing, and in her silence, Varric continued. "The timeline doesn't match up, anyway. I _talked_ to him. He came back to the house. He was getting his armor and throwing some stuff in a pack."

"I believe you, Varric," she said gently, and she thought she saw something fleeting on his face. Something that revealed he had needed to hear that.

He was pouring himself another glass. She held out hers for the same. "Sometimes I wonder if the docks thing wasn't a ruse he cooked up with Athenril's people, you know? The smuggler he used to work with. One last favor to pull. Make everyone think he might be dead? I don't know. But he's not dead. I talked to him, and people have seen him throughout the war."

"That was why I came to Kirkwall," she replied. "There were too many accounts of people who claimed to see Hawke. I was asked to return in order to re-open the investigation."

This seemed to hearten Varric. A slight smile wanted to appear, but not yet. "Yeah," he said, and she could sense him trying to make his voice sound casual. "Anything good?"

"There were the outlandish rumors, of course," she replied, "as you've no doubt heard. But our attention was fixed on the reports that all contained the same elements: an encounter was always at night, the encountered was always alone, and they always needed help of some kind. They matched the description of his armor, and they said that he was very kind."

Varric studied his glass. "Always alone. You know I hoped he'd have some new friends with him somewhere. Some rag-tag band, you know? Maybe a mage and a templar who deserted the war, fall in love. Some brawny mercenary guy who turns out to be really sensitive and smart-- like our kid Adaar for instance. Throw in an elf or two."

Cassandra smiled a small, weary smile. "And a dwarf too?" 

"That asshole, he better not have a side dwarf." Varric shared a smile of his own, but it could not last. He sighed. "It kills me to think he's just out there by himself. Helping all these people with nobody to help him. Wondering if, hell, with the way things all went to hell, maybe he didn't have to put down Anders after all... shit."

"They were lovers."

"Yeah."

He had never confirmed it until now, but she had already heard what people were saying. It had been in the initial reports as well, seen as evidence of the champion's guilt in the chantry explosion and the mages' uprising. But there had also been the account of the poor clinic, where anyone could come for help, where Hawke and Anders had healed, comforted, listened. Nothing was simple.

For awhile, neither one of them said anything until a log in the fireplace popped. Varric smirked.

"The champion will find new friends here," Cassandra told him, "if he comes to Skyhold."

"I just, I d'know. The last sightings put him in Orlais. I haven't heard of anything in the last year. I don't know where to reach him."

"We will see. The war has ended. Corypheus has returned. We are safe in this fortress for now, and he will hear where to go. Or he will return to Kirkwall and to his brother. We must wait."

"Let me ask you something." Varric emptied his glass and set it down. "Did you really believe he was a blood mage?"  
"Are you serious?" 

"Don't answer a question with a question." 

"We had many reports that he was a mage, that he was practicing forbidden disciplines, that he outright used blood magic to defeat the Arishok... "

"Uh huh. Anything credible?"

"Blood magic is difficult to prove. It is the very nature of the--"

"I wanna know. What'd Cullen say?"

"Cullen insisted that he had never seen Hawke do magic." At first, Cassandra believed his answer to be suspicious. "He said that Hawke had been something of a rogue. More of an herbalist and healer."

Varric mulled over her response. Then he smirked. "I'm just curious about the evidence," he said, "given the severity of the charges against us."   
So there it was. There was his aim. "Varric. That is finished."

"I just wonder sometimes what would have happened at the Conclave. Both sides spoiling for somebody to blame. Hawke was a perfect scapegoat, and though you didn't have him, you had me. You know, as a rich and prominent figure in Kirkwall, there are a lot of people-- nobles-- who either owe me money or resent my status. I'm sure they'd love to see me burn."

"We took that into account, Varric. You wouldn't have been the first non-human accused of heinous crimes. We also considered that the rumors of maleficarum could stem from blood mages themselves, resenting how he hunted them and wanting to ruin him. Or that simply the promise of coin or mere attention could set people to telling lies." 

"But you were still going to hand me over to her."

"Varric."

"Can you look me in the eye and tell me, without a doubt, that there was no one at the Conclave who wouldn't vote to burn me and Hawke to death? Standing tied up to a stake?"

When she was much younger, her anger sometimes wetted her eyes, a response she had always hated. She felt the telltale sting now. Maker! She could not start to get teary-eyed now. Why must he always seek to stir up conflict? Why? "You always exaggerate--"

"No. That's the punishment. That's what they do." He stared her in the face, his eyes challenging and yet sad. "I always thought that if it came to that, I'd find a way out of it, or, hell, that Hawke would swoop in to save the day-- but that's been over my head for almost a year, Cassandra." 

She did not need to justify herself to Varric. She told herself that again. It was only that the attributes that made him a good writer-- persuasion, a sense of empathy-- also made him hell to argue with. He could play on your emotions if you let him, and-- foolishly-- she had given him license to do so. She was tired. She had two glasses of wine. And he was looking at her like that... "I would not have let that happen," she whispered fiercely. "And you should know the Divine came to believe that Hawke would help to stop the war. She had a message for him personally."

"Which was?" 

"We will never know now. Her message was only for him."

Varric sat back. "Yeah, _that_ won't make me wonder." He drummed his fingers on the table. Quietly, almost offhandedly, he said, "I want a judgment."

"From the Inquisitor? Formally?" 

"Yeah."

"Of course she will clear your charges."

"I want it in writing too."

Slowly, trying to wrestle with her frustration, she asked, "You truly believe you were still our prisoner, even now, after everything?" 

"I want her to clear me and Hawke. Make it so if he's out there, he can hear he's not in trouble, and it's okay to come back."

Cassandra sighed. Her chest still felt tight afterward. "Very well," she said. "I am certain she would do it. You can ask her yourself tomorrow."

"Yeah, Ana ran me that message. My first War Table meeting. Let me guess, most of your time is just hanging around it with a hot drink and gossip?" 

"Goodnight, Varric," she said dully. "Thank you for the wine." Of which she should not have tasted. His quip had done nothing to lighten the mood. Her thoughts still felt disjointed, but at least she had controlled her anger for now. 

"We had a good talk, I think. It's good to clear the air." He smirked at her. "No hard feelings, by the way." 

Always the martyr. She had no words for him, and she just shook her head as she left. It was only until she had crossed halfway down the corridor that she realized the extent of the cold stone floor pressing up at her feet. She had left her boots outside his door, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of going back for them.


	7. The Judgment of Varric, iii

Early morning found Skyhold hushed and grey. Morning drills struggled beneath cloudcover. Recruit and veteran alike shuffled and shifted weight, trying to keep warm through movement. Sparring fighters fell against each other without enthusiasm, motivated only by the sharp rebuke of the commander, who seemed to draw bitter strength from the cold. The brews of Highever, so welcome the night before, now exacted their vengeance in the stabbing heads and sick stomachs of those who had reveled too greatly.

Cassandra strode with purpose across the upper yard, pausing only once to check the integrity of her second-best set of boots. The soles showed wear on the inner heel, and she no longer gained the same traction as before. Head high, she entered the main keep, where the long gallery stood near empty but for servants and early morning workers. A scaffold partially obstructed the view from the door to the dais, where the eye-and-dagger chair awaited future judgments.

Only Josephine and Leliana were gathered yet before the War Table. Their heads were bent together in some quiet conversation, and their whispered words in Orlesian were like ribbons of silk. Josephine ran a finger over the map, tapping twice over the shield and colors of a Free Marches city. It looked like Wycome.

Leliana trailed off in thought, her gaze fixing somewhere distant. Then she smiled and straightened.

Josephine looked up, her face pleasant, but almost deliberately so. "Good morning, Cassandra. Aside from Kirkwall and Starkhaven, are there any matters you believe we should address today?"

"The group of clerics who left Val Royaux," Cassandra replied. "Even if we have no new information, it bears mentioning this breach of tradition."  
Josephine dipped her quill into the inkwell fixed to her handheld board. "I will make a note," she said.

Cullen and the Herald arrived together. Cassandra said nothing of it, since she knew Cullen had spent the night passed out over his desk, but Leliana winked when she caught his eye. Cullen just sighed. The both of them looked a little worse for wear. Purple smudged showed beneath the Herald's eyes.

Lasamahl smiled at them and inclined her head in greeting. It was her way to look over the map for a moment by herself, and while she did so, Josephine asked, "Would you prefer we bring in our guests separately this morning? Or together?"

"We have already interrogated Varric," Cassandra added. "It would be more expedient to question the both of them at once."

"And more entertaining, no?" Leliana grinned.

Cullen crossed his arms in almost lordly disdain. "I would rather not discuss Kirkwall's situation in front of the qunari."

"Oh, Cullen," Leliana said. "They already know."

His frown endured. Cassandra had hoped that it would have helped him to sleep in his own quarters again, but he looked as fatigued as ever. It was hard to believe he was only thirty.

Throughout this exchange, Lasamahl said nothing, even as their eyes turned to her for a resolution. She touched a marker on the Exalted Plains. "What is this?"

Leliana said, "The Venatori have abandoned a position there. It appears they have been attacked by demons from a nearby rift."

"And this?" She touched a second marker.

"One of our own camps," Cullen replied. "Our only significant foothold in the region."

"And this?" A third marker.

"Oh, er, that appears to be one of my hair ties," Josephine said with a flutter of a smile. She took it off the map.

Lasamahl smiled at her, and then she looked between her advisors. "We will bring the Iron Bull and Varric in together," she said, "but we will dismiss one if the other asks for it. Now, Commander, please."

Cullen disliked her decision on the matter, and it lingered on his face as he began his report. "The Inquisition remains in need of supplies and soldiers," he said. "We are stretched thin across Ferelden, and even thinner throughout Orlais. We have already been forced to abandon camps in the Exalted Plains and the Emerald Graves. Banditry and attacks have cut off our supply lines there."

"I think the Venatori incident may be worth consideration," Leliana said.

"At least there's that," Cullen said drily. "I believe Leliana is proposing to investigate the Venatori lair to see what they have left behind. I remind you that they abandoned their position due to rift demons." He turned to her. "We did not have the forces to match the Venatori, so what makes you believe we could fight the demons they could not?"

"Fight them, no, Cullen," Leliana replied. "I wouldn't send your soldiers or templars, even if you had them to spare. I recommend a small team of agents. I have just the ones in mind."

Lasamahl said, "Josephine, have we no allies who could join forces with us there? The nobles seem to enjoy being on hand to help us close a rift." Indeed, the lords and banns of Ferelden had begun to send men-at-arms to join in the battle. On one occasion, even the sons of the nobility had come riding, a whole troop of hotblooded youths kitted out as for a hunting party, mabari and all. One of the brats had even asked Cassandra to step aside so she wouldn't get hurt; Blackwall had intervened but it had him laughing all day.

Josephine shook her head. "Unfortunately, the Exalted Plains are a turbulent landscape of civil war, where the nobles are more concerned with the question of the throne. Even as they fight to a standstill, the Orlesians show suspicion toward us at best. A handful of minor alliances notwithstanding, of course." Cassandra did not relish those alliances, as many of their Orlesian lords seemed to expect the Inquisition to grovel and fawn for their support. In this matter, she nearly preferred the open contempt of the Ferelden lords who didn't trust them.

"Then we will have to leave the matter for another time." Lasamahl trailed her hand along the table as she traveled around it. "There is no use in risking men over this. If the demons are attacking the Venatori, that is their concern now." Her eyes lifted and she gave an impish smile. "If our enemies fight each other, we should leave them to it."

Leliana nodded. "I agree, naturally," she said, "but I was merely curious. The Venatori usually demonstrate a better command of the demons, but you did mention their spiraling loss of control in your... _vision_ with Dorian."

Lasamahl said, "I see now what you mean. Yes. The Elder One lost control of the rifts and the demons in such a short time. Barely a year." Her eyes trailed toward the colored glass of the windows. "You raise a good point, Leliana. We will have to bear this in mind and look for other incidents. There is nothing to be done now."

Josephine said, "Moving on, we have news regarding the process to elect the new divine. Cassandra?"

"They have chosen one already?" Lasamahl drew back on herself with suspicion.

Leliana smiled at such a question-- innocent almost.

"No, it takes much longer than that," Cassandra answered. "On the passing of a divine, the clerics gather at the Grand Cathedral to decide her successor. We have word that a number of clerics have abandoned the cathedral and have left to parts unknown. This is a serious breach of protocol. No one is to leave Val Royaux."

Leliana said, "We will be watching for them to reappear. It is likely they will seek sanctuary in a chantry somewhere, especially a location of great spiritual significance."

"If that is so, then Amaranthine in Ferelden would be a natural choice." Cullen shook his head. "But I can't imagine a troop of those bitter old ladies would care overmuch to slog across the Storm Coast."

"I'm of two minds on that," Leliana replied. "Amaranthine has deep significance, but I believe you are right. In any case, I have asked friends in Amaranthine, Jader, and Cumberland to keep us informed of the situation."

Josephine said, "Grand Cleric Iona is leading those clergy who splintered away. She gave a final speech at the Cathedral that denounced the others, as well as the Inquisition. She is our chief rival among the chantry and I fear that her display has drawn much attention. This cannot bode well."

Lasamahl looked even more pale than usual. Her lips looked grey. "Suppose she gathers her supporters and sets herself up in some shrine. Does she have the power to declare herself the new divine?"

"It has never happened that way," Josephine said. "The process is called the Grand Consensus, and the votes must all be unanimous."

Leliana said, "However, these are strange times, and most clerics who could have hoped to succeed Justinia were also killed at the Conclave."

Cassandra said, "If Iona were foolish enough to declare herself Divine, then we would no longer need to worry about her. It would be suicide."

Lasamahl smirked. "She wouldn't have to. Her supporters could propel her into the position while she protested all the while. What forces does she have? How many templars?"

"Very few, if any," Cullen replied. "Most templars have been corrupted beneath Venatori control. The chantry now protects itself with soldiers, volunteers, and mercenaries. Iona and her group will likely have hired swords to defend them."

The Herald sighed. "What should we do about this?"

"We could watch and wait for now," Leliana said. "This may become a situation that resolves itself..." A note of black humor played upon her voice. It seemed the Left Hand suspected that the splinter clerics might destroy themselves in their own Game. The Antivan Crows and the House of Repose had to be dancing with joy over so much opportunity.

"We could persuade the nobility and other clerics to withdraw support from Iona and her people." Josephine was tapping her quill. "This is unseemly conduct at a most dangerous time. It is important that the Inquisition appears steadfast, stable, and committed to peace."

Lasamahl turned to Cullen. "Commander?"

"I don't care what Iona says or thinks."

Josephine returned, "Yet she remains a Grand Cleric with extensive ties and an illustrious tenure."

"I have seen another of similar stature prove herself to be entirely useless." Cullen leveled a flat stare among them. "I've nothing for you here."

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. She had no realized his true feelings for Elthina before she heard the sour contempt in his voice.

The Herald said, "We will wait to see where the splinter clerics choose to go. I doubt Grand Cleric Iona will be able to keep quiet about me for very long. Josephine, I like your idea, but let us wait until we know where they have gone and what they are trying to accomplish."

Leliana made a curtsey.

Cullen squeezed at his temples with his thumb and the edges of his fingers. "Are we moving on to Kirkwall and Starkhaven?"

When the Herald nodded, it was Josephine who spoke. "There has been a significant breakdown in relations between the two cities, who have been allies and friends throughout history." She favored Lasamahl as she spoke, her tone informative yet kind; there was much of the human world that the Herald would have to learn. "Recently, the Prince of Starkhaven has insisted that Kirkwall is harboring the apostate who destroyed the chantry there. This is complete nonsense, of course, but it could serve as a pretext for annexing the city. There is no clear leadership in Kirkwall and the former seneschal is overwhelmed with administrative duties."

Lasamahl hesitated. "I am still learning about Kirkwall," she said. "Isn't the apostate dead, the one who killed the Grand Cleric?" Her eyes sought out Cassandra.

"He went by the name Anders," Cassandra answered, "and he is dead now. Hawke killed him immediately following the chantry explosion."

"And we are certain that Anders is dead?" Lasamahl asked, her voice light and careful, as though she did not wish to insult the work of Cassandra's investigation. "Abominations are difficult to kill."

"We considered that," Cassandra replied. "Our occult specialists raised several explanations: that the spirit of Justice allowed his host to die as punishment for his crime, or that its actions conflicted against its nature, weakening the abomination to the point where death was possible."

Cullen's gaze was fixed on the map. "I saw the body," he said, "after the mob had gotten to it. I can't imagine a demon enduring that kind of treatment to its host." The pitted edge of his voice could draw blood. Cassandra felt for him. He had been called to endure so much, and so much of it so unnecessary.

Josephine looked uncomfortable; his moods put her at unease sometimes. It was her nature to deflect, smooth over, and soothe-- all skills of a certain finesse for the missions at hand, but her soul would always be sensitive beneath its protections. "As I said," she began again, "this is only a pretext for political pressure, if not outright annexation."

Leliana leaned in. "It is a persistent annoyance, as well," she said, "since he cannot truly be proven to be dead."

"But we know he is dead," Cullen said.

"No we don't," Leliana answered. "Not in the eyes of the Game. Anders can still be used against his former friends and city. The Prince of Starkhaven can tear apart Kirkwall brick by brick to find him. And they might even produce a man of a certain similar description, whom they will sacrifice to politics, and they will show a mutilated body and call it justice."

Lasamahl scowled at the possibility. "This is terrible," she said.

"There is more," Cullen said. "The Veil throughout Kirkwall has always been thin and warped. Varric says that there are no major rifts yet, but it is only a matter of time. Anomalies have been spotted over Sundermount and throughout the oldest parts of the city. Green twisting weak points. If the city is attacked, the widespread destruction could tear open the Veil and plunge the city into chaos." His extensive background with the occult character of the city was apparent in the weary tone of his voice if you knew nothing else about him.

Cassandra added, "Never mind that Kirkwall is the original location of Corypheus' prison, as well the source of red lyrium. There is too much at stake for an invasion."

"What can we do?" Lasamahl asked.

"That is the question we are all asking ourselves."

Cullen said, "We do not have the men or the means of transportation to travel to Kirkwall. We will have to see if Varric can pull any strings."

Josephine said, "We also wanted to ask Iron Bull for the qunari perspective. If there is any information they can provide."

Lasamahl sighed. "Very well. Bring them in."

As Cassandra neared the door, she could hear The Iron Bull and Varric joking with each other. Bull's voice rumbled in a deep warm chuckle, and Varric bantered in a tone she had always found especially vexing. As she brought them in, she saw Varric look down at her feet and then up toward her face. He challenged her with a grin but said nothing about her missing pair boots from last night. Damn him.

"All right, Bull, you gotta get serious, this is the war room," Varric was saying.

The qunari looked pleased to be invited into the proceedings. All an affectation, Cassandra supposed, but sometimes he could make you think he might be genuinely friendly. "Hey, nice table, Boss," he said.

Varric sketched a bow.

Lasamahl inclined her head. "Bull. Varric." Her brows lifted in a gentle and kindly welcome, though her smile looked pained. It had been a wearying morning of bad news, unfortunately. Cassandra would have to help her cultivate resolve, as her younger self had to learn.

Leliana had cleared off the War Table in the meantime, but she had chosen to leave markers over Kirkwall and Starkhaven.

Josephine's quill finished its flicker across the paper, and she angled her board to look at their guests. She flashed a smile and began, "Thank you for joining us. The situation in Kirkwall should be a concern to everyone, especially with the instability of its Veil, and the presence of red lyrium. Bull, it would be helpful to know if your people were able to discover anything about the situation."

"We don't want to get involved," the Iron Bull said. "We're staying out of it."

"Of course, given the historic tensions," Josephine said.

"That and the place is crawling with demons and blood mages," Bull replied.

"Hey, it grows on ya." Varric hooked his fingers in his belt. "Great nightlife."

The qunari snorted with a flicker of a grin. "I mean, it sounds exciting for a guy like me, but I can see the higher ups not wanting the headache." He looked thoughtfully over the map. "Tevinter is the focus now-- and what's happening now with Corypheus. Why I'm here."

"We are glad for your presence," Lasamahl told him, her hands clasped together, and it made Cassandra think of some kind of dalish welcome. Her dark eyes were inscrutable, like a doll's eyes, but she seemed to study his face. "Bull, since you remind us of our mission with Corypheus, do you think there could be anything now to Starkhaven? I am told that Prince Sebastian was a great friend to Kirkwall and her people, but now he chases after a ghost, and threatens violence to a broken city."

The Iron Bull squinted as he drew on some memory. "I would have to ask," he said, "but I can tell you what I know now. Starkhaven has a lot of money to throw around, and the prince has brought out a team of engineers to build massive siege equipment. I mean, that's not exactly Ben-Hassrath cunning for you, anyone can see the trebuchets and ballistas taking shape outside the city walls. But if you ask me, I think it's all for show."

"To what end?" Leliana asked. "An expensive gambit, even for a city as rich as Starkhaven."

Josephine frowned over her board. "Perhaps the prince intends to frighten Kirkwall to surrender."

Bull nodded. "Something like that."

"Aveline will never surrender," Cullen said. "Sebastian ought to know that." Cassandra saw him exchange a look with Varric.

"See, the thing that's interesting to me," Bull said, "is that the prince knows all the big players in Kirkwall. Right? He lived there. He was a friend of Hawke's. He ran in his crew for years. He had to know you guys pretty well, didn't he, Varric?"

"Sure, yeah," Varric said, shrugging once. Cassandra knew his tells by now, and she watched him brace himself with a _so-what-_ smirk ready in defense.  
"So, the prince knows all about the city, knows all about Hawke, and he _still_ wants to start shit with Kirkwall?" The Iron Bull scratched his jaw. "That's some pretty big balls on that guy. He oughta launch _those_ out of a trebuchet."

"What do you mean." Lasamahl picked out something from his commentary. "'He knows about Hawke.'"

Cullen stiffened, but Varric went loose, his shoulders rolling back with a sigh. His smirk only grew, and Cassandra could barely stand to look at it, even though she was not the target.

"Well, you know, what Cassandra and the others told you," Bull said. He spread his hands. "I mean, you did tell her, right?"

"Tell me what."

"Yeah, Bull, let's hear it," Varric said. "I was always curious to know what kind of sore loser talk was going around in Par Vollen... "

Leliana smiled only the slightest wisp of a smile, and Cassandra knew she would enjoy to watch how this all played out. Cassandra had no patience for the Game, especially if Varric was now to be involved.

Lasamahl watched Cullen from the corners of her eyes, even as she said, gently but firmly, "Iron Bull, you may speak freely here."

"I d'know, I don't want to be the bad guy here." The Iron Bull looked between the advisors. He would be trying to read their reactions, of course.

"Continue," the Inquisitor said. "Tell me what the qunari say about Garrett Hawke."

The Iron Bull took a deep breath, his face guarded. "We call him the Goradun-Oqothlak, the Drinker of Life. He was the master of a coven of blood mages, disguising himself as a decadent nobleman. He gathered arcane knowledge from the ancient Imperium, enthralled allies throughout the city, and killed the other blood mages who resisted him. In a summoning chamber beneath the sewers, he called forth a forgotten god and drank her essence, the wellspring of his power. He is said to feed on the chaos in the rebellion. It is all part of his plan."

Josephine had started out with initial notes, but her quill scratched to a stop over her board. She raised an eyebrow and looked helplessly toward Leliana and Cassandra.

The mood shifted in the room; the muscles itched for motion in Cassandra's calves and shoulders.

Then in a low voice, Varric said, "Is that what you think, Bull?"

"We might have gotten some of the details a little blurry... "

The smile that stole across Varric's face could only be described as _evil_ , and Cassandra felt an unexpected twinge in her lower belly. "It's all true, you tell the qunari to stay the fuck out of Kirkwall. And get out of Tevinter, too, for that matter. You know what? Just everybody-- go back to Par Vollen, shut up, put your heads down, and wait for further instruction."

"All hail the blood master," said Cullen in a voice so acid it could practically eat through the table.

Lasamahl was the first to laugh.

Then Varric's evil smile broke up with a mirthful chuckle. "Cullen, can you believe this shit? I told you. I told you the qunari were the ones spreading it all around."

"First of all, 'decadent' and 'having a plan' are not the traits I would associate with Garrett Hawke," Cullen said archly. "And the only thing he feeds on is _attention_."

Varric delighted in Cullen's grumpy answer, and Cassandra fought to keep a smirk from twitching the corner of her mouth. "You qunari, I swear," he said, "you just can't admit you lost your arishok to a big crazy guy we called the _Nuggalope_ , so you tell this spooky story to make it sound like nobody could stand a chance against him. Which nobody _can_ , by the way, make sure you underline that in your little report you write after this."

"That's enough, Varric," Cassandra cut in. "We have asked The Iron Bull for information. We should not ridicule his answer."

"Yeah we can, if it's _dumb!_ "

"It is good you have told us this," Lasamahl raised her voice over Varric. "You should be able to speak your mind."

"Thanks, ladies." The Iron Bull smiled a self-deprecating smile. "It's all right, I'll stand here and take it. It's all right by me. I know Varric's making it all into a joke, but I don't want you to miss the important part here, the thing you originally wanted to know."

"And what have we missed?" Leliana asked him. All the while she had watched impassively, her arm banded across her chest, her other hand held in a loose fist against her lips.

The Iron Bull planted two huge blunt fingers over the map at Starkhaven. "Prince Sebastian is either brave enough or crazy enough to piss off the _Nuggalope_ , or someone's forcing him to do it... for a reason more serious than all the bones ripped magically out of your body or being impaled on giant blood icicles."

Josephine, who had continued taking notes again, almost assuredly just wrote 'blood icicles' to judge from the silent words her mouth was shaping.

"It could be that the prince believes the champion is dead," Leliana said, likely a bid to see if the qunari knew anything about that rumor. "And so he would have nothing to fear in taking the city."

Varric met Cassandra's eyes briefly. "I like the rumor that it isn't really Prince Sebastian," he said. "That's why it's all so weird and out of character for him. The real Sebastian is out there somewhere, living like a renegade, plotting his revenge and his _dramatic reveal_."

"We have a few Starks here," Cullen said, "and they're all saying and wishing the same. But your friends have seen him, Varric."

"Yeah, but it's got to be, I don't know, blood magic or something." Varric shrugged with a _beats-me_ kind of smirk. "Just let me have this stupid conspiracy theory. I'm tired of my friends turning on me and my city, you know?"

Lasamahl brought her palms together. "Iron Bull, thank you for your words," she said. "I would ask that you not repeat them among the others. I do not know what evidence the qunari have to support your claims, but to the Inquisition, these are only rumors. Unwelcome ones. Hawke is to be our guest here, and our ally, if he wants that."

"Sure thing, boss," Bull replied, his look unoffended, even gracious, with a hint of humor. "I want to you to know, uh, no hard feelings, and I hope he's as wacky and fun a guy as Varric makes him out to be. Because I'm gonna be pissed if I end up a blood puppet."

Varric just shook his head. "You're full of shit," he said, almost fondly. "So, drinks later?"

"Always."

Once the qunari had lumbered away, Lasamahl said, "Do you think you could convince Sebastian to stand down from this? Kirkwall can hardly be worth the trouble to invade."

"I can write him again. I don't even know if he reads it, but, sure. I can try to sell him on the end-of-the-world angle."

Lasamahl nodded. "I wish there was something we could do for Kirkwall."

"Me too."

Cassandra met his eyes, and she prompted him with a slight tip of her chin.

"Hey. Listen, 'Quiz. I want to ask you something. I want a judgment."

The Herald cocked her head, and something of it reminded Cassandra of a canine who has heard a far-off sound. "You want me to judge you?"

"Yeah. A formal judgment. The big scary throne, Josephine's board, the whole thing."

"But why, Varric?"

"Closure? Have Josephine show you the charges. They're all crazy, but I'm hanging in the balance here. Now, I've got access to the outside world again, and I'm not dragging my chains around, but no one ever cleared me. I want this put to rest."

"I understand."

"And the way I see it, you have some unusual powers for some unusual times. Not even the next Divine can go against an Inquisitor's judgment. Well, I'm sure she could always torch me over something new... they always find a way... but I want it in writing."

"I will review the evidence."

"Good luck with that." Varric laughed ruefully. "And one more thing, I want Hawke, too. You can judge him _in absentia_ , right?"

" _In absentia_?"

"You know, it's a fancy Tevinter phrase for talking behind somebody's back."

Lasamahl smiled a tired smile, then. "Oh, that sounds like something from Dorian's people," she said. "Very well. I will take a day to review the charges against you, and you are to report to your judgment tomorrow morning."

"Considering there's no compelling evidence, unless you count that load of _Iron Bullshit_ , I don't think it'll take you a whole day. Unless you want to read the best parts out loud and laugh at them, that is. I'm sure Cullen will find some of them funny..."

"Not really, no." Cullen rubbed his face with his hands, as though his expression might melt off like so much wax.

"If you insist, Varric," said the Herald.

"I know a day's nothing when I've been waiting for months," Varric continued, "but I just really want this over with." Cassandra felt more than heard the emotion he tried to disguise from his voice. She refused to experience guilt, but it happened anyway.

"Then we could be done in time for the evening chant."

"There you go. A perfect transition right into the tavern."

"I was thinking that the bonfire would look more spectacular at night," Lasamahl said.

"That's _dark_ , 'Quiz," Varric told her with a chuckle.

"We will summon you at sundown. You are dismissed. Josephine, Cassandra, this is now my mission for the day. Varric deserves this."

Varric, half-walking out, looked back over his shoulder. "Wait, what do I deserve?"


	8. The Judgment of Varric, iv

The War Table meeting left Cullen frustrated. Little use came of it, serving only as the continual reminder that they were too few and too scattered to do anything but chip away at the colossal threat that towered over them. He had to believe there would be some new miracle yet unfolding, but then, how did one requisition a miracle? Would the Herald call down fresh boots from the heavens, or bring edible rations forth from the ground? 

The men scraped mold off their food as it was, or ate around the blue and fuzzy parts, because at least it was something. Certain nobles had promised support that had yet to materialize, and Cullen could only hope that the teyrn was truly as good for his word as he seemed.

At least the initial gifts from Highever were greatly welcomed by the men. That was to say, they had not shown any regard to moderation and the lion's share had vanished overnight. We could have made it last a longer while yet. Blackwall clapped a massive hand on his shoulder and told him, _let them have their fun, commander, sometimes more than you need is just enough._

Half a dozen pressing matters dissolved their way through his time that day. He had wanted to set aside a moment to review the matter of Varric-- damn him for springing this on them. Could he not have waited a few more days, until they settled their business after Highever? Everyone dropped everything on the account of Queen Anora. Already Cullen had lost momentum with a matter he worked with Josephine, attempting to arrange a supplier of quality leather. The demand for lighter armor was much more than they could reasonably hope to outfit at the present time. Fiona had asked him, _What am I to do with my mages, dress them up in bedsheets and a barrier?_ and Cullen had told her, _Well there are also curtains._

His thoughts were pulling in so many directions. The judgment of Varric bothered him more than it should. He could in no way see any real danger coming to the dwarf through this harmless charade. More than likely it would become the stage for his complaints, and when he felt that his ego was adequately soothed by the airing of grievances, he would change the subject and joke away into the evening. Cullen respected Varric, even liked him, but he could see no point to this.

Hawke would come to them when he was ready, no sooner, and no later. Cullen did not think it a matter of _if_ but _when_. It was the one point of optimism that he allowed himself.

Cullen began to pace his office. Ordinarily he might take a break to perform a quick routine of exercise, something to get the blood flowing, to focus him. To give an outlet to his energy. Yet there was a pain drumming in his eye and in his head, and if he dropped to the floor now for even push-ups, he was certain the pressure would become unbearable. Even as it was, he strained for concentration, and the pounding ache only wanted to focus on that little locked drawer in his desk. He wished that Josephine's people hadn't grabbed his lyrium kit when they made a mad dash for the advisors' belongings. Let it be buried in Haven. 

But here it was, snug in its little drawer, waiting for him to crawl back. He had tried to stop twice. He wished he had the strength to throw it off the ramparts, but there was always an excuse. An excuse dressed up like a reason. What if another templar needed it? What if there were a magical threat so great that only he could stand against it?

A darting motion took Cullen out of his tangled thoughts. His head snapped to follow the blur. Alarm seized upon him, out of instinct-- Maker, he needed more sleep. He couldn't jump and twitch over everything. With a growing sense of what it might be, Cullen stomped his feet toward the doorway, and then rounded back on the lightest steps he could manage. He hooked a fingertip in his lion helmet on the way, bringing it up carefully into his hands, minding not to let the visor snap to make a sound.

He waited a few moments. Sure enough, the intruder thought it safe enough to emerge, nose twitching. A mouse! People had been remarking on the mice at Skyhold lately, perhaps the warmer weather and the new source of edibles.

Cullen swept up his helmet and brought it down. Captured! He knelt to fit a gloved hand through the lion's jaws, and aha, there it was. He drew out the mouse for inspection. 

It was a little black mouse with a tuft of fuzz between its rounded ears. It looked sleek and quick, not at all mangy or dirty like a city rat. Perhaps it was a forest mouse of some kind. It peered at him with enormous dark eyes and Cullen refused to be charmed. Its nose twitched.

"Oh no, don't you try," he said darkly. "You'd better not be in here chewing on my books." What to do? He might put it in the garden at the least...

All of a sudden he felt liquid warmth seeping into his glove The mouse wet on him! By reflex he dropped the little intruder, who scurried away into a hole in the wall. He pulled off his gloves and had just begun to wash his hands in a basin when he heard someone dance up to his door. Ana, of course.

"What is it," he called to preempt her.

"You have good ears, comandante!" she called back. "The Inquisitor, she wants you in her room now!"

Cullen thought he heard one of the soldiers stifle a laugh. With a sigh, he went to the door and opened it, finding the elven child balancing on one foot. She held the other foot in her hand, wiggling to stay in place. "Comandante," she said, looking up at him through a messy frizz of golden hair, "is Varric in trouble?"

"I wouldn't worry," he told her. "Varric is _always_ in trouble."

This seemed the right thing to say, because Ana laughed and said, "Papa too!" 

She seemed to be enjoying her job as a messenger and page about the castle. She accompanied Cullen on his way through to the inquisitor's quarters, as though she were some official guard or escort. However, she lapsed sometimes in her solemn duty, breaking into a little dash or wiggle of a dance. Cullen was never quite sure where she had come from. Originally, he thought she might be one of Josephine's people-- purely from the Antivan accent-- but then he had seen her playing with Leliana. One of Sister Nightingale's little birds.

Drawing near to the inner door of the quarters, Cullen could hear voices through the door. Varric had a blunt energy to his tone, spoiling for a fight-- a tone of voice deeply familiar to Cullen over the course of the years.

"... I bet you thought you could use him to get your answer. Let's hear it."

Lasamahl was on friendly terms with him, and didn't know yet how to argue with him, or how not to. He could run circles around you if you weren't prepared. She sounded flustered, and Varric would be making a mistake if he didn't tone himself down. "If you think that--"

"Aw, come on, 'quiz, don't play that." Varric had to be grinning. "What did Cole have to say?" 

"You asked him about the Conclave!"

"Yeah, you bet I did, so, you first." 

Cullen didn't know what he would regret more: to knock and announce his presence now, or to hold back. He cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles there anyway. "Varric, enough," he called through the door. 

And who was Cole? He seemed to remember the name, but he could not quite put a face to it. 

"That will be Commander Cullen." Lasamahl pounced on a change of subject. "Come in."

Cullen entered to find the room strewn with papers, some of them set in stacks, some loose. He had to step around them with a longer stride. "It looks like Josephine's brain exploded in here," he said.

"Ha! And these were only the ones she could find on short notice, too." Lasamahl flashed a quick smile. "Clearly Varric didn't want to give me any time to dig deep."

The dwarf was lounging on the settee by the stair, his arms spread along the back of it. "Yeah, you know, I wanted to hide my dirty deeds so badly, I published them all in a book." He winked at Cullen. "Hey, Curly." 

"Varric, I will have you know, you are greatly inconveniencing all of us right now." 

"Yeah you wanna talk about an inconvenience," Varric said, "how about where I was minding my own business and Justinia's secret police busted in to drag me off."

Cullen crossed his arms. He refused to be included in the circle of oppressors that Varric drew around himself. He had no bearing on the actions of the Seekers. As Knight-Captain he had done enough in Kirkwall to deserve condemnation, but let him be damned for things he actually did. "If it were up to me, Varric, I would have let you be. You know that."

"Yeah, I know." Varric's voice softened, and from the way he smiled, Cullen believed they might become friends someday. It was a strange and tenuous prospect. "But, here we are, and I just want this over with."

Lasamahl watched their interaction with a wistful look upon her face. "I have read these documents all morning," she said. "There is no evidence, only rumors, each stranger than the last." 

"I have said as much," Cullen replied. "Seven years of investigation, and nothing to show of it. I am sick to death of the topic."

"Hey, I thought you only investigated him in the beginning." Varric made a face. "The whole time?" 

"Meredith would go in cycles," Cullen explained. "She would begin to admire Hawke, and then she would suspect him. She became obsessed with the idea that he was controlling her mind with blood magic."

"Uh huh, yeah, so. Knowing what you know of Garrett, don't you think if he had magic powers that let him fuck with people, that he wouldn't _ever stop doing that_?"

Cullen smirked. "That was my line of argument, in fact." His headache hurt in such a way that he found his sense of smell intensified, as it happened sometimes. He thought he could smell and taste the ashes of the fireplace, even though an open door allowed plenty of crisp mountain air into the room.

Lasamahl stepped over a pile of papers to come closer. Darkly he wondered if any of these contained the results of his interrogation. "So you do not believe that Hawke was a blood mage," she said.

"No," Cullen answered. "Decisively no. When the Circle first learned of his arrival in the city, it was when Leandra-- his mother-- had gone to the Viscount for an audience. She had last been seen heavily pregnant fleeing from Kirkwall in the company of a runaway mage, who was rumored to have been a maleficar."

"But it turns out that Malcolm Hawke had a special Grey Warden dispensation," Varric cut in.

"There was nothing we could do about Malcolm. He had been a good mage by all accounts, and we had no proof over any ill conduct besides his escape. So, we kept an eye on Garrett for a while, first for his family ties, and then for the fact that he was _always_ in the thick of things. You couldn't enter a dungeon or a smuggler tunnel or a lair or anything without running into him or his crew."

"To be fair," Varric said, "there were only like, two each in all of Kirkwall, so yeah."

Cullen almost smiled despite himself. "This is a waste of time, Varric," he said.

Lasamahl looked out across her quarters, her gaze trailing along the walls. Cullen had hardly spent any time here, and strictly on official business. He watched her face, wondering what she was working on to ask them now. He had suspicions.

"There is a final thing I must know for the judgment," she said. "Something that Bull mentioned."

"Oh, yeah, this ought to be good." Varric rolled his eyes. 

Cullen nodded once for her to continue. He had put Bull's nonsense out of mind. Surely Bull couldn't have truly believed all that he shared at the table that morning. Perhaps he was testing their reaction.

"When Bull told us what the qunari believed about Hawke, he mentioned a forgotten god beneath the city. A summoning." Her huge dark eyes hunted out the answer. "Do you know anythi-- you do. You _do_ know."

Cullen must have made a face. "I was there," he said. He glanced at Varric, who raised his eyebrows. "It's a--"

"A long story," Varric finished for him. 

She gazed upon then with open interest, something shadowed and troubled in her eyes. "What must I know?"

Varric held up his hands. "All yours, Curly. After all, hunting demons and blood mages was your job, wasn't it?" A glimmer of good humor. "Besides, I always wondered what the hell you guys were thinking when you showed up."

Cullen ran a hand back through his hair. Very well. We discovered that some of the smuggling tunnels beneath the city were being used by some of the blood mages. I led a force of templars to investigate, and we discovered the situation far more serious than we could have imagined. It turned out to be the sanctuary for one of the larger blood mage covens in the region. Their combined ritual had just summoned forth an ancient demon."

"Lucky for you," Varric said, "we were also there."

"Yes, and why _was that_ exactly?"

"Staking bad guys, of course." Varric pantomimed a shot from Bianca.

"Bull said it was a god," Lasamahl said in a light tone, but he had begun to learn her tells by now. Why would she tiptoe about? 

Cullen replied, "The people who came to question us afterward-- Seekers of the Truth, without a doubt-- they seemed to believe the entity had been called Xebenkeck."

Lasamahl pulled back in alarm. "The Forbidden One," she whispered.

Varric said, "If it's any consolation, Hawke and Merrill killed her. Merrill was a friend of his, a dalish elf."

"Exhaustive studies followed this incident," Cullen added, and he couldn't keep the disdain from his voice. Exhaustive indeed.

For a long moment, the Herald said nothing. The look on her face suggested that Cullen and Varric had just told her that Hawke had gone to the moon and danced a merry jig across its surface. "Xebenkeck is neither a god nor a demon, truly," she said, then, in an undertone. "She had been a companion of the Evanuris, before she fell from their favor. They cast her out, as they did with all the others they had tired of." 

Cullen would take her word for it. Throughout his career he had learned enough of elven lore to realize he knew nothing of it, truly. "The Chantry occultists claim that she was a demon that betrayed your pantheon, and that it was she who first told the secrets of blood magic to the ancient Tevinters." 

Something flickered in her face at his words, _your pantheon_ , and he might have made a mistake. Yet she said nothing of it, instead pressing on, "No matter the story, she is-- was-- a being of immense power. I find it difficult to believe-- how did you kill her?"

Varric also appeared interested in the answer as Cullen would relay it.

"It was all a blur," he answered. "Hawke and Merrill got to her first. It all happened so quickly. It was dark, as well, and the place was swarming with maleficar and demons. They were giving themselves up into abominations everywhere you turned."

Lasamahl looked between them. "I cannot believe that you survived." 

"Cullen here was a real badass," Varric said with a slowly spreading smile. "Smiting the maleficar. Fenris was pretty sure you were gonna bite it, but hey, your guys all made it through."

"Thanks to Anders," Cullen said drily, "and the grace of the Maker, who loves irony." His headache had somehow spread down the back of his neck at this point. 

Lasamahl started to pick at a loose thread on the sleeve of her shirt. "The slaying of a Forbidden One is as great a deed as dueling the arishok," she said. "Even greater. How is it that no one heard of this incident?"

"Some shit was too weird for my book, so, I left some stuff out. Artistic license, you know." Varric made a shrug, but Cullen could sense a ripple of unease from his body language, the way he shifted now and sat up. Perhaps he had become inured to such odd events while in Hawke's company, and it was only now that another perspective had been offered.

"We didn't understand the extent of what had happened until later," Cullen continued. "Strangers arrived from Orlais to question us, and Meredith made it clear that we were not to discuss anything further. She didn't want it to spread, perhaps out of concern that the summoning might inspire other maleficar in the city. Or perhaps it might credit Hawke and his friends in a way she didn't like." He found his voice and his energy beginning to fade out. "Hard to say."

Varric brushed it off with a smile. "Just another Tuesday to us, really." 

Lasamahl held a soft, quiet expression that he had only rarely seen before when she knelt with Cassandra in the chapel. An intensity to it. This was important to her in a way that neither of them could fully understand yet.

"That is enough for now," the Herald said. "Varric, I dismiss you. _Ma serannas_."

" _Ma nuvenin_ ," he replied with a wink, and that brought out a smile from her. Cullen wasn't sure what that meant, but at least they ended the conversation on better terms than its beginning. Still, he met Varric's eye as he left, just shaking his head.

Varric seemed to sense his annoyance, and he tipped off a little Inquisition salute as he went by. When they were left alone, Lasamahl met him halfway, and her hands stroked along his arms. 

"I think I know what I must do," she said, "but I must meditate upon it." She left off with a gentle touch. 

Cullen regretted his pain. They hadn't had any time alone since Highever, and even then, it had been spoiled by the drumbeat of a headache and its nauseating flash of colors. "I can say with certainty that Varric is only guilty of stealing my mages," he admitted, "but that means nothing now."

A question came to her then, as though she had not previously considered it. "How many mages from Kirkwall are here now in Skyhold?" 

"Only one." He thought of the lost young man listing about his office for a purpose.

"I would like to meet him," she said-- naively, perhaps. 

Cullen sighed. "Of course. Is there anything else?"

Lasamahl went up on tiptoe to exchange a light kiss. "I hope that you will trust my decision," she whispered, brushing his face with her fingers. 

He thought about that later, as he walked back to his office. Trust her decision. Of course she would clear Varric and Hawke of their charges. What other decision could there possibly be?


	9. The Judgment of Varric, v

Word spread around the keep, and by early afternoon, the nervous energy seemed to seep into the very stones around them.

Cassandra walked past half a dozen whispered conversations throughout the day. Malcontents among the mages looked at her from the corners of their eyes. Grand Enchanter Fiona handled the matter with grace; if she found them thronging together in conspiracy, she shooed them away with more to keep them busy. Although she had attempted to resign her position twice, the Herald refused her, and so Fiona was left as the leader of the rebel mages. On days like this, that position put her into the role of someone like a mother, sternly reminding her charges of their duties and manners.

In the chamber that Solas had humbly claimed for his own, the circular walls threw back the voice of the mage, Adaar.

"She can't do this," he snapped. "She doesn't have the authority."

"I'm to understand this to be the original mission of the Inquisition." Solas sounded smooth and calm.

"There is _no_ evidence, even after all this time. He should have someone to represent him." 

"Someone like you, perhaps?" A smile rounded out the tone of the elven mage's voice. "Take heart, my friend. Master Tethras is both clever and resourceful. I do not imagine he intends to maneuver himself onto a pile of kindling."

"But who could stop her if she decides that?"

"An interesting question," Solas replied, "but purely hypothetical at this juncture. You cannot honestly believe such a thing might occur."

In a harsh whisper, Adaar hissed, "I don't know what to believe, only that I don't trust her."

Cassandra glanced down over the rail; Adaar stood with both hands on the table, his look impassioned, his whole heart showing on his face. Solas humored him with a kind and patient expression, always the one to put the world into perspective.

Adaar must have sensed they weren't alone; he tensed and pulled away from the conversation. He had always borne a dissonant opinion, always lingering on the edges of the Inquisition, wanting no part in it... and yet too committed to walk away. Divine Justinia had specifically requested 'alternate points of view' among the elite mercenaries called to guard the Conclave. The Tal-Vashoth company had been an unusual choice, and Adaar most unusual among their number.

Catching his gaze, Cassandra said, in a neutral tone, "I thought you and Dorian would be departing soon for the Trevelyan mission." 

"I'll leave once I know that Varric is cleared," the qunari answered.

"He requested this, you realize," she said. "It is intended to come as closure."

She had nothing more for him, and so she continued on her way. Solas inclined his head politely to acknowledge her passing through. 

It was nearly time. Cassandra found Josephine aflutter in her office; it astounded her continually that someone so competent would berate herself at every turn.

"Josephine, take a breath," she said. "I have delivered all the pertinent documents to the Inquisitor. There is nothing more you can prepare."

The ambassador gestured with the hand that held her quill, and the feather made an unintentional flourish as she did so. "He has requested an escort from Cullen. An armed escort."

Cassandra snorted. "To be brought in by guards, like a common prisoner?"

"Strictly speaking, Cassandra, he _is_ our prisoner."

"This is just like him." Her knuckles tightened as she clenched her fists. "What else did he request, to also be bound in chains?"

"Yes, that too."

"Maker be good. We should gag him as well."

Josephine tapped the feather to her lips, almost as though she were actually considering it. "No, it wouldn't do," she said, "the judged is allotted a certain time to respond verbally to the accusations. Unless. We could have the guard pull the gag up and down when it--"

Cassandra groaned. "Why must he always be so dramatic."

For a moment, Josephine said nothing, but her brow began to ease. Her eyes searched Cassandra's face, then, and a mysterious smile softened her tense expression. 

Cassandra didn't like it, whatever it meant. "I will finish any last minute concerns. It will be good to have this over with."

................

The hall was packed. Simply packed. The last time it had been so full, it had been the trial of Gereon Alexius, who had wronged the legion of rebel mages that crowded here. His judgment brought forth an uproar: counter to every expectation, Lavellan had chosen to spare his life. The initial outrage subsided only after everyone could see the misery of the magister's condition, shuffling around the keep under templar watch, brought out only to gather a few tomes for research. He was assigned to Fiona now, a cruel yet fitting reversal of fortunes, a broken man struggling day-by-day with little to live for. Cassandra had not known Lavellan would do that. She still had surprises. Even the Avvar judgment had ended as strangely as it begun. Perhaps these incidents were reason enough for the jitters of the keep today. Perhaps they were all wondering what she would do.

Of course, Cassandra wasn't worried. It was only that other people being nervous made her nervous. A habit from her younger days, out in the field. A warrior's instincts. 

A hush fell when the Inquisitor appeared from her chambers, the sword of Ameridan in her hand. From the slight waver in her arm, Cassandra saw that the sword was still so heavy to her, but she was improving. She took her place at the throne where a pair of guards awaited her.

Now the whispering rippled back to life. Cassandra and Cullen exchanged a glance. They stood together, Josephine up at the dais, and Leliana-- she was somewhere. One of her ravens preened itself on the upper reaches of a scaffold. 

The Inquisitor made a signal to Josephine, who took a deep breath. "We are gathered for the judgment of Varric Tethras of House Tethras, and Garrett Hawke of House Amell. Messere Hawke will be judged _in absentia_ unless he is actually present among us, then, erm, please stand and be recognized."

The whispers intensified. Cassandra saw engaged faces when people turned their heads to look around them. Some looked irritated, defensive: the Champion had become a divisive figure and some mages blamed him for their situation. Cassandra felt a cold wash of emotion over the skin of her upper body. "Do you think there is even the most remote possibility he could be...," she whispered in to Cullen.

"Not to worry, you would know. He giggles like a child the entire time he has himself in _stealth mode_ , and it only gets worse the closer you are to his hiding place." Cullen sounded so tired, as though he were a thousand years old. He was pressing a palm against the side of his head. "Hawke is about the worst rogue that I have _ever_ seen... "

Josephine allotted a few moments for any surprises. None came, Maker be thanked. The doors of the keep opened and a pair of Cullen's soldiers brought in Varric... and a training dummy. Overstuffed with straw to make it huge, and painted with a loopy grin, the dummy could only mean to represent one thing. People closest to the door were pointing at the straw monstrosity, and Varric said, "Hey, it's a visual aide, you know? Unless the real Garrett wants to, y'know, pop out of the crowd right now and save me..." 

Varric was dressed in his finest red brocade, although he couldn't be bothered to do up all the buttons, and he had surely spent as much time as Cullen on his hair. Just as Josephine had warned, he held his hands before him, bound in a padlocked chain. 

Up he came along the central hall, walking slow, almost a swagger, really, with a smile playing on his mouth. He caught someone's eye and winked at the crowd. He could have a sort of roguish good look to him, if you knew nothing of his personality, his arrogance, his meddling, his need for dramatics... 

And of course the guards walked with him, as well as the extra man who was designated to carry the straw dummy.

Josephine began, "Varric Tethras, you came to us as a prisoner to be questioned in the Mage-Templar War. However, due to the unusual circumstances which have arisen from the destruction of the Conclave, you have lived among us a free man. You could have escaped, or left willingly, but you remained to help against impossible odds. Yet, here you stand, by your own request." The flicker in her voice meant nerves, Cassandra knew. Josephine was uncomfortable with the idea that they would haul Varric to the throne for punishment after all this time. It was important that they not appear so capricious as to turn on their ally for no reason. "I must ask: do you truly wish to be read your original charges, and to be judged by the Inquisition?" 

It must secretly annoy Varric to be deprived of his martyrdom, even so slightly. Yet he only smiled at Josephine, the wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes. "I stand here of my own accord," he replied. "I want to be a free man, without any reservation, and I want it spread far and wide that it's safe for Hawke to come back. Some of you might blame him for what's happened-- and he'd understand. You don't have to like him, you just have to work with him." 

Cassandra heard as well as felt the ripple of voices in the crowd. She watched Josephine's face, the careful mask smoothing back into place. The ambassador lifted her elegant thick dark eyebrows.

"So be it." Josephine continued, "Varric Tethras, you stand accused of many crimes. I remind all present, once again, that by your request these are the original charges raised against you. Murder. Theft. Smuggling. Extortion. Bribery. Aiding and abetting in the escape of mages from a sanctioned Circle. Smuggling mages. Knowingly and willingly harboring apostates. Knowingly and willingly harboring a maleficar. Acting as party to crimes against the Maker, participating in blood rites with the Accursed, and obstructing Chantry investigations into the practice of maleficarum."

Varric shrugged. "Is that all?"

"Additionally," Josephine read out after a quick glance at her board, "the officiating of wedding vows without proper authority in the city of Kirkwall."

Varric brought his chained hands up to seize at his heart. "Ah, no, not that."

Cassandra was taking in slow, deep breaths, holding them, releasing them. The Inquisitor looked on with a face of stone. Lavellan's own thoughts on the matter were guarded to her, a touch mysterious, but Cassandra knew that she was committed to justice and the spirit of the law, rather than its letter. Beside her, Cullen seemed uncomfortable-- he always touched his face, hair, and neck, she had noticed-- but he was undoubtedly tired of Varric and staving off a tremendous lyrium headache. 

Josephine cleared her throat and continued, "Garrett Hawke, by proxy, you stand accused of murder, theft, smuggling goods, smuggling mages. Apostasy. Failure to surrender yourself to a sanctioned Circle. Unlawful impersonation of a Templar Knight. Unlawful impersonation of a Chantry brother. The practice of forbidden disciplines of magic to include blood magic. The use of maleficarum to alter an unwilling mind. The drinking of blood from victims, and the corruption of blood through dark ritual." She looked up from her document, sounding like she needed a glass of water. Her eyes moved over the hall before she continued, with renewed effort, "You stand accused of knowingly and willingly harboring an abomination, failure to report an abomination, and fornication with the same. You stand accused of conspiracy against the Chantry, the killing of Grand Cleric Elthina of Kirkwall, and the incitement of violence and rebellion."

Tension tightened in Varric's shoulders and back, and Cassandra felt a twinge for him. There would be no cute addendum to the list this time. But this is what he asked for. He pressed them for this.

The Inquisitor leaned back. At this distance, Cassandra couldn't read any deep nuance in her expression: those huge dark staring eyes gave nothing away. "These charges are severe," Lavellan said in a cold voice. "What punishment does the Chantry recommend for such cases?"

Josephine smothered her surprise; clearly she hadn't anticipated such a question. However, since she had the whole world in her notes, she consulted a quick glance among the items on her board. "The punishment would be death, Your Worship. By fire."

Varric leaned in toward the Hawke-dummy. "By fire, huh, look at all that straw, buddy, you're screwed. I told you to quit your shit but you didn't listen!"

People were murmuring among themselves. Heads turning, shoulders going back. The sleeves of robes made a whispery sound as the mages shifted and shuffled. Adaar stood out from the crowd in the back, his face hard, his mouth set. Leliana's raven edged along the upper frame of the scaffold, its feathers puffed.

Cassandra didn't think the Inquisitor could possibly... she wouldn't, this was merely a ploy to emphasize the grave situation that Varric had once found himself in. She felt Cullen's eyes upon her, and they traded a look. 

The Inquisitor rose from her throne. Softly now, she asked, "What do you say for yourself, Varric Tethras?" 

"I didn't do it," Varric answered, "except for the stuff that I did. And anybody decent woulda done the same."

Josephine made a tight expression. "Master Tethras, if you are to confess, you must be more specific." Her eyes were pleading, _don't confess, what are you doing!_

Cassandra reached out to hold Cullen's upper arm. 

Varric somehow managed to shrug with just a quirk of his eyebrows. "I put it all in my book, you might have heard of it, _The Tale of the Champion_." He looked around himself at his audience. "Yeah, I know it might be bad form to plug my work right now, but hey, I'll sign a copy. If this trial goes sideways, you might stand to make hell of a lot off a collector's item... "

Cassandra could have killed him. It would save Cullen the trouble of building a bonfire.

Josephine looked askance at the straw dummy. "We are required to allot time for Messere Hawke's rebuttal."

Varric leaned like toward the dummy as though he were taking in a whisper. "Uh, he says he's sorry about the mess, he hopes everybody's doing okay, given the circumstances, and still trying to treat themselves right. Oh and don't burn Varric." His voice had a jaunty sense of fun to it, but to Cassandra it sounded a little forced. He always defaulted to humor in self-defense.

Lavellan stepped out across the dais. "Long ago, the Inquisition was entrusted with special authority to act when others could not. When normal structures of power had failed. The Inquisition creates order from chaos. Its judgment is final. _My_ judgment is final. So it was entrusted in its founding, so shall it be honored for all time to come. I pardon Varric Tethras and Garrett Hawke of these crimes now and forever."

All around them, the murmuring of the crowd thrummed like the swarming of bees. Clear disgust showed on some faces. The mages who preferred the Circles, who blamed Hawke for the chaos of the last few years. Others seemed pleased with the outcome, friendly and open, but few seemed to honestly believe that anyone had been in real danger. 

Yet there was a look on Varric's face that Cassandra could not read. "Your Worship, I thank you for your mercy and wisdom," Varric said at last, and he smiled an effusive smile, his voice rounded into a pear-shaped tone. "I like to think Divine Justinia would have ruled the same, if she'd had the chance.. "

Lavellan smiled coolly, then, but it smoothed away as she stepped down to address the hall. "I had meant to wait a while longer for this announcement," she said, "but now is as good a time as any. I know you have heard the rumors by now. I will be asking the Champion of Kirkwall and the Heroes of Ferelden to join us here at Skyhold."

A shadow of hesitation passed across the Herald's features, and then her face hardened. Ruddy blotches were beginning to show on the pale skin of her face. "If any among you should hold any misgivings, know that we must stand united against Corypheus. That is all that matters now. Our cause is righteous... but our allies remain few. We welcome any who come to help. Remember: the wolf was never meant to go alone. We are all pack here. I have sent out a howl for the others... now we listen."

Varric and Lavellan stared a moment at one another, no further word passing between them. Cassandra thought she saw a shimmer at the edge of the crowd-- Cole? Beside her, Cullen remained tense.

"You may go free without fear," the Inquisitor told him, and a true warmth rose to the surface, somewhat flustered, "or you may stay and be welcome." 

"Eh, I think I'll hang around here for awhile," he said with a wink. "I feel like I might have a new story in me." Varric sketched a theatrical flourish of a bow, and the free motion of his hands revealed that the manacles fell empty. _The scoundrel had picked the locks in the midst of his own trial!_

Just as she noticed this, Varric was turning on his heel to strut his way out. 

"Thanks for everything, Seeker," he told her as he passed by, a loud click revealed to Cassandra that she had just been shackled to the straw dummy's arm. 

"I don't care if he's just been cleared," she said to Cullen. "I'll kill him myself."


	10. The Judgment of Varric, vi

Too many people moving, talking. Thoughts tangling together. They cast a net of anxiety over Cole, but he wriggled free like a little fish. He went out into the upper yard of the keep, head down, unseen by all but Solas. He wanted to help, but how? He used to think it a simple matter.

"Words from the mouth. Words from the mind. Why do they not match? The living people say they want the truth, but they do not share it. They do not listen."

Solas favored him with a gentle smile over his shoulder. "There is a saying that comes to mind. Truth bites with sharper teeth than those of a lie."

"But why would anyone want to be lied to?" Cole gangled after him.

"Many people would be injured to hear the truth of a situation. That they would prefer to believe in a lie. Some find comfort in that."

"I feel so much hurting here," he murmured. "Everyone knows something that will help another, but they won't say it. They don't know who to talk to. So they suffer alone, when they could reach out their hand and have their answer."

Solas weighed his answer for a time, and they walked together in the place that once belonged to him, a safe place where now he went like a stranger. He was looking to find his home again, not knowing it was all around him. His hurt was not possible for Cole to heal. It troubled Cole, but he would persist. At length, Solas replied, "You can't be certain that would help. You might think so, but people will surprise you. And what is said can never be unsaid." 

"She would understand, but you would have to tell her now."

"You know I cannot do that." Solas smiled gently. "Cole. You should not interfere in such things. Sometimes we make a matter worse when we try to help."

"Yes. You made the matter worse. She did not want your help in the way that you offered, and now she won't tell you what she wants to do." He had talked down to her as a _hahren_ when she had been looking for a friend.

"And what is that? What will she do?" 

Cole shrugged, and Solas drifted to a halt.

"You should tell me."

"I... but you said." 

"Very well. I can be patient... and she is mostly predictable." Solas shook his head. "I know you must experience a great confusion in our world, Cole. But I am glad that you choose to remain."

Cole said nothing, but he felt the elf wondering, reaching. He might not be so patient after all.

Solas sighed. "She's not going to try to cut off her hand, is she." 

Cole ducked his head, the brim of the hat coming low. "A wolf chews its leg to escape the trap, but she changed her mind. The vision showed her there was no place to run to."

"Thank you, Cole." Solas held his tongue for a moment as a band of mages passed them by, their heads bent together in a hushed argument. Cole felt the ripple of their emotions in conflict-- one of them would never say, the slight elven one, but he had considered the letting of blood to escape his circle. What did the Inquisitor's judgment truly mean, he was wondering now. But the turbulent thoughts faded with the distance of their thinkers. Solas had waited, and re-engaged him with an arch of his eyebrows. "Now: I assume you are keeping an eye on the _new guest_ in the castle, aren't you?"

Cole shook himself out of another's memories-- the tower at Markham, the dank cells. "The guest?"

"You know the one."

Cole thought of a raven, a mouse, a young man in the kitchens with hair like a cloud. There was a song in him. You could hear the strains of it, a strange melody, something about it slightly wrong. He hadn't come to hurt anyone yet; he wanted to look first. He had to be sure. "He likes your painting."

"Is she aware?"

"No, they haven't spoken yet, but she likes it too. She wouldn't tell you." 

"The _shapeshifter_. Is she aware of his presence here?"

"Oh. Yes. Leliana explained."

"So long as she knows. Don't let him into her quarters." 

Cole knew as much. She had asked him to help her, to watch for hidden threats. She trusted him so much, and he felt its warmth, a thing so rare and wonderful. 

He left Solas on his way; there would be too many mages bustling and talking in the library, gathering in the tower wing, and it would disturb the little rounded space where he kept his things. Solas would have to hear all their arguments, and while it would amuse him for a time, he had his own concerns to pick apart. He didn't know that Lasamahl might have helped him, or that Varric and Cullen knew things he did not realize. 

If they could all speak freely with one another, would they fear and hate like they did? Or would it be worse than before.

...............

"So, you know, 'Quiz, I gotta ask you something." Varric walked with Lasamahl along the ramparts, squinting his eyes against the sunset. "First is, you're going to come drink with us, right?" 

"Another time, Varric," she answered. She had put away the sword of her office, but its weight still burdened her. "What else do you wish to ask me?"

Cole followed at a distance, flickering from brick to brick as he crouched on the crenelated wall. It would be better if neither one knew he was there. He had become a point of contention without wanting to be.

"I meant what I said about the invite," he told her. "I wanted to get that out of the way first, so you know I'm not mad." 

She kept her voice cool and even, still as a pool of water, but she feared for what he might say. "Why would you be angry, Varric, when you asked for this?" 

"So, with what happened back there. A pardon can be interpreted in different ways. One, that you have just cleared us of our charges... then thanks." He took a breath. "Or two, you just found us guilty, but you're all right with that. So which is it?"

Lavellan looked out along the red mountains as they walked. "A pardon can be interpreted in different ways," she answered.

"That's what I thought."

She had done this to save him. She remembered his kindness when she was alone here, how he tramped up the snow to come talk to her, how he joked and laughed with her, how he made sure they were seen together as friends. He had been a prisoner, but he had power of his own, and he had wanted to protect her. She had no friend-- only Cole-- but she had not remembered him yet. She wasn't ready.

"I read in Ameridan's book what these powers entail," Lasamahl said in a voice that borrowed an official tone from Josephine-- and her nervous flutter too. By Chantry law, these charges cannot be raised against you after this-- no matter what should happen, no matter who becomes Divine. You bask in the light of the Maker's forgiveness, and what the Maker forgives, Man must find it in himself to do the same." 

Varric wanted to explain. A story he wanted to tell but he could not find the words for it now. The Deep Roads, the way out, the whistling sound he heard too late. 

"Uh huh. So, I understand that things are different with the dalish, but you have to realize how _serious_ \--"

"I realize a great deal more than you think, Varric Tethras. You and Hawke are the only ones to have defeated Corypheus, and handily, at that. Your friend is welcome here."

"Is it that easy?" 

"I see no reason why not."

They walked a while together. Her heart was straining toward him. She had something to admit, but she wouldn't tell him now. Instead she confessed to something lighter.

"I do ask Cole for help sometimes. Why wouldn't I? Wouldn't you, with stakes so high?"

"I uh might have done the same, but, I don't think it's right. Not fair to the kid, either. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"I asked him what Hawke was," Lasamahl replied, "and Cole said he was _purple_."

"All right, so... Cole doesn't always make sense."

Had he been wrong? No-- blue _and_ purple, but mostly purple. 

Lasamahl smiled thinly. "I am grateful for all of Cole's help, and he has helped me in ways you cannot know... but he sees the world very differently than we do."

Cole experienced an emotion that he had mostly felt from others. Was this embarrassment? He wanted to pull his hat down over his body. He shouldn't listen to them talk about him. He was trying to do the right thing. He was trying to help.

Lasamahl said in a light tone, "Now what did you ask him about me?"

Varric held up his hands. "I wanted to know why you were really there at the Conclave. Cole told me that you went in search of a god, and that you were granted his favor."

Lasamahl swallowed. "This is truly what he said?" Her right hand squeezed her left, where the green glow pulsed beneath pressure.

"Yeah. So, there you are." Varric smiled. "I mean, this shit is too weird and too crazy for it not to be the will of some higher power. We're talking about the guy who invented nugs, you know. Hey-- you all right?"

"Yes-- yes. Thank you for telling me this, Varric."

"Hey, I was gonna tell you earlier, but you were all in a hurry to get Commander Hot Buns in the room." 

"Well, wouldn't you?"

Varric laughed. "Not me in particular, but I get you. Sounds like all the big heroes are cuckoo for Cullen. So. You sure you don't want to come drink with us?"

"I would like some time to reflect." 

"All right, well. If you change your mind. I bet Curly's gonna be there... he'll bitch and moan, but he wouldn't miss it."

.............

Skyhold sorted itself out, and anyone who was any fun had sorted themselves right into the tavern. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, a little smoky from the papers and documents that Varric threw in there. The dwarf was half-humming, half-singing to himself, though he looked up to smile and wink a personal greeting for everyone who came to join him, no matter how far removed in the Inquisition that they might be. What a charmer! 

Dorian sidled up to The Iron Bull, who gloomed in a way he wasn't sure was entirely for show. "Oh, what's wrong? Aren't you happy for Varric?" 

"Yeah, I skipped and picked flowers all the way here," Bull replied.

"Come now, chin up. Or are you really as superstitious as they say?" Dorian waved for the bartender's attention, but oh, Cabot was already on his way with a foaming mug of something. Perfect.

"I don't know, Dorian, you all right with this evil shit headed our way? We're all gonna be blood puppets."

_Well, not_ me _, but the rest of the lot._ That was the problem with outlawing magic out of hand, without so much as a study! Now you wouldn't know a maleficar if he jumped up and bit you on the ass. Dorian supposed that was why no one seemed to notice the shapeshifter that was gallivanting through the castle that very moment. Aside from Leliana of course. She was a crafty one. You had to watch her. 

"Oh, but just think of the party banter, though."

"He's gonna swirly-eye me and it's all over."

"Oh, hush, I don't think Hawke hated the qunari at all. Don't you worry." Dorian pitched his voice, then. "Hey, Varric! Question for you!"

"I didn't see anything, I didn't do anything."

"The qunari! Hawke's feelings on them."

"Can't be described in mixed company."

"Good or bad?"

"I invite you to imagine a big, burly bearded guy running around and around and around two floors of the viscount's keep, chased by a somehow even bigger burly guy, who by the way is also the head of state of a hostile empire... and our hero is scrambling up and down stairs, hiding behind pillars, climbing on chandeliers... saying shit like this isn't personal, and he actually finds you quite attractive... "

Dorian choked a little into his drink, which made him come away with foam on his mustache. "Oh, now, that's not how we heard it happened in Tevinter." He glanced at Bull's face, and saw just the look he wanted. Oh, marvelous.

"I had always wondered about that chandelier," Cullen said as he padded his way over. He looked like he was nursing the hangover today that Dorian wished to gamble towards tonight. But it was really one of those days-long headaches of his. He should have gotten that neck-rub. "It was too stupid not to be true."

"Hey, like I told you at the time, the chandelier killed the arishok. Boom. End of duel. I know what you're thinking, but, Hawke was too heavy a guy to be climbing on that thing. It was dumb all over."

Cassandra, not far behind from Cullen, was all a-glower so early in the evening. "You told me a different story than that."

"Hey, you were gonna cut my balls off, I didn't think you'd believe it." Varric shrugged. "I might have gotten creative with the details."

Bull sighed, like everyone else had lost their mind. It was a quiet thing-- you'd have to really know his look-- but Dorian delighted in seeing him have a taste of his own medicine for once, the big know-it-all. "Then what about all the blood? And dismemberment? The remainder of the arishok's forces were destroyed. Arrgh, come on, Varric. You have your pardon!" 

Varric fed a sheaf of papers into the fire and wiped his hands clean. Then he came to the bar, making a light shrug, like, _you want to do this, then we'll do this _. Dorian sharpened with interest, and he had a grand view of the show before him.__

__"The chandelier came down with a _huge_ crash," Varric began. "For a moment, nobody said anything, there's just this wreckage and the big body of one newly ex-arishok. Garrett was crawling around with the chain still twisted up his leg. The other qunari took a long look at it all. Complete disbelief on their faces. Not like us, I mean, we were only in _partial_ disbelief, because shit like this was _always happening_ when you ran with Hawke."_ _

__"Then one of the qunari draws his blade and announces in broken trade that it was _witchcraft_ he saw before him. Therefore, the terms of the duel cannot be honored with a saarebas. So we're all beaten, bloodstained, tired, it's been a full day of fighting our way to this keep, and this was supposed to be the end of it. The way for the fighting to stop, and now the fresh ranks qunari were going to fall on us... "_ _

__Cullen drew back with a sudden clarity, something that penetrated the fog of weary pain. "It was Anders," he said._ _

__Varric shrugged. "Yep, it was Anders. You know, the arcane horror boyfriend? He lost his shit. Justice went berserk. You can still see dried brain on the keep's ceiling to this day. I'm surprised you guys didn't consider that, but there you are. It took us awhile before we could joke about any of it--" he winced with mostly his eyebrows "-- but we always said the stupid Champion statue should be torn down and a big chandelier hoisted in its place."_ _

__Dorian almost pouted. Why, the answer stared them in the face. He himself ought to have known better on that account, but in Tevinter, everyone knew that Spirit Healers were so susceptible to becoming an abomination that you just overlooked it. Too obvious. However the new detail of this relationship was more interesting all on its own..._ _

__Bull shook his head, causing Dorian to duck with his mug out of the way of the horns. "Fuuuck," he said. "It almost makes sense, Varric. Dammit, I don't wanna be the old guy at the bar with the weird conspiracy theories."_ _

__Varric winked at him. "Have another drink, Bull, it'll get better. You too, Curly."_ _

__Cullen waved off a mug of his own, instead pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I don't have time, but while we're showing our cards... what about the incident with the frying pan?"_ _

__"Curly, I can't say how glad I am that you and me are here, having a drink like this, at last." Varric spoke with such a genuine warmth that Dorian found himself smiling. How fun to see these two, on opposite sides, brought together in such circumstances. There were going to be such stories... and was it terrible that Dorian was glad he probably wouldn't miss too much of it, because Cullen looked like he wasn't much longer for the tavern, or the world, frankly? Dorian couldn't spend all night drinking and laughing because he had to leave tomorrow for the hinterlands... such pesky timing!_ _

__Cullen narrowed his eyes. "You didn't answer my question. Where did he even _find_ it?"_ _

__"Look, it's a long story, and only you and me know the details. I can't just launch into how Hawke killed an elder god with a frying pan--"_ _

__"I believe he only stunned her. At-- at first."_ _

__"--you got to ease into it." Varric threw up his hands. Then, with a grin, he motioned his eyes and chin. Bull smirked, seeming to sense his request, and he boosted Varric up onto the bar top. "Look, everybody. I wanna say, thank you for coming out to have a drink with me. A free man."_ _

__"Not to worry, Varric, I am sure they will think of new charges to threaten you with." Dorian raised his mug. "Otherwise, goodness! What kind of Inquisition is Lavellan running here?"_ _

__Blackwall laughed a hearty laugh. The man seemed to form out of the shadows, as, Dorian supposed, the Grey Wardens were wont to do. "Good on you, Varric," he said. "How much are you going to put down on the bar, then, eh?"_ _

__Sera's face appeared from the stairway, upside-down, her hair falling._ _

__Bull seemed to perk up. "Yeah, Varric," he said, as his Chargers shouldered into the tavern. It was as if Lieutenant Aclassi hadn't learned his lesson from last night's drinking: what a brave handsome lad, picking himself up for another go. That's the spirit._ _

__"Funny you should mention that," Varric replied with grace and warm laughter. He walked-- no, strutted-- down the bar to outstretch a hand to Lady Josephine as she arrived. "With the unfreezing of my assets, and the opening of communication-- it turns out that Inquisition has a rich friend in a rich city." He mouthed, _that's me_. "I'm prepared to put my goods and services to a righteous cause... buddy rates, too, but we can talk all about that later." _ _

__Cassandra looked so annoyed, and Cullen almost-- until he saw the face of his compatriot. The commander seemed to derive a measure of satisfaction from Cassandra's irritation with Varric. As any discerning spectator would._ _

__"I refuse to humor you, Varric," she said._ _

__"And yet here you are, Seeker. Have a drink!"_ _

__Dorian caught Bull's attention, and made a comment only by the raising of eyebrow toward Seeker and dwarf. Bull grinned, and Dorian was pleased they could agree on something this evening._ _

__A smile spread across Josephine's face, and with grace, poise, and no small measure of good humor, she met Varric with a curtsy. "Varric Tethras, you are an even greater scoundrel than the reports warned us about."_ _

__"Thank you, Josephine," Varric beamed. "And I hope you didn't need those back, by the way... "_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a. On to Dorian's adventure in Ferelden, where he will try to find the mysterious apostate _Trevelyan_ and convince him to join the Inquisition. We will see how Anders can withstand the charm offensive. You did figure out that's who that was, right?
> 
> b. I wanted to do this sequentially to keep it together, but I'm left with a lot of extra material that distracts from the flow. What does that mean? Be on the lookout for one-shots and side stories as they pop up. Going forward from here, if I think a side story would be fitting to read before a chapter, I'll tell you in the notes.
> 
> c. o-antiva.tumblr.com


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